


The War of the Ring

by morwen_of_gondor



Series: The War of the Ring [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Injury, Epic Battles, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Help, Male Friendship, Medical Procedures, Minor Character Death, Mostly A Fix-It, Songs of Power, Strategy & Tactics, The Sons of Fëanor Derail the Council of Elrond, Truly Massive AU That I Did Not Mean To Write, War of the Ring, Xanatos Gambits, and now he's running with it, and subsequently the entire LOTR, blame Maedhros, except now with more Sons of Fëanor, for that matter please don't get shot to begin with, he showed up to the Council of Elrond and just started organising everything, if that wasn't abundantly clear already, into a massive battle plan that did not exist in LOTR, just don't try them at home, of a sort, yes they are all things that can be done to deal with arrow wounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:49:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 42
Words: 178,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21874765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morwen_of_gondor/pseuds/morwen_of_gondor
Summary: It was foretold in the First Age that Fëanor would never return to the world of the living until Dagor Dagorath. The same was not said of his sons.At the beginning ofThe Lord of the Rings, there were few Elves left in Middle-Earth who could ride against the Nazgûl, let alone Sauron. Chief among those was Glorfindel, sent back after his death in the First Age to aid Middle-Earth in the Third. What if he was not the only one sent back? In the First Age, Fingolfin went toe-to-toe with Morgoth. Finrod did the same with Sauron. Neither of them was accounted the mightiest of the Noldor.In a world where the Sons of Fëanor, reincarnated, returned to Middle-Earth to atone for their crimes,The Lord of the Ringshappened very differently. It began in the council of Elrond, but it did not stop there. This is that story.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Arwen Undómiel, Boromir (Son of Denethor II) & Faramir (Son of Denethor II), Curufin | Curufinwë & Gandalf | Mithrandir, Elladan & Elrohir & Amrod (Tolkien), Elrond Peredhel & Maedhros | Maitimo, Elrond Peredhel & Maglor | Makalaurë, Frodo Baggins & Sam Gamgee, Gimli (Son of Glóin) & Legolas Greenleaf, Legolas Greenleaf & Thranduil, Maedhros | Maitimo & Boromir (Son of Denethor II), Merry Brandybuck & Pippin Took, Théoden Ednew & Théodred, Éomer Éadig & Théoden Ednew, Éomer Éadig & Éowyn & Théodred
Series: The War of the Ring [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1679146
Comments: 1005
Kudos: 547





	1. The Council of Elrond and Maedhros

**Author's Note:**

> At the beginning of this chapter, there is some dialogue and description overlap with the beginning of my other story _The Council of Fëanor_. Bear with me, it doesn't take long before this spins off and becomes very definitely its own thing.
> 
> Anything in italics is a quote, probably from FOTR.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Sons of Fëanor show up to the Council of Elrond and take council for the swiftly-approaching War of the Ring.
> 
> Early update this week - Merry Christmas!

_"…But have they the strength, have here we the strength to withstand the Enemy, the coming of Sauron at the last, when all else is overthrown?"  
"I have not the strength," said Elrond; "neither have they."_

At that moment, a clear voice said from the doorway, "But perhaps we have."

The Elves of Rivendell seemed struck dumb by the apparitions who now entered the room. Frodo looked to Gandalf, and found that he too stood as though frozen, shocked into silence by the strangers. He turned to take stock of them, and saw that they were Elves, but unlike the merry folk of the woodlands he knew best or even the grave loremasters of Rivendell. They were tall even by the standards of the Eldar, and all seemed, to Frodo’s eyes, to burn with a white flame fiercer even than Glorfindel’s.

The one who led them was the tallest, and he bowed to Elrond before saying, "Curufin. What can you make of this Ring?"

One of the strangers strode swiftly across the room to kneel before Frodo, and said, "It may be that I have the power to destroy this thing, great though its evil is. Do you permit me to examine it?"

Frodo had several questions, but they all wanted to come out at once, so wordlessly he held forth the Ring once again. Curufin did not move his hand to take it, but gazed upon it intently, for a few moments. Then he said, as though to himself, in a soft voice, "He stole all his methods from my son! Nevertheless, though he was careless, his power was greater than any elf’s. It does not surprise me: my father’s enemy was never subtle, but he was always too strong for us. Curse him and all his folk to the Void!"

After this strange outburst, he was silent again for a moment, then nodded curtly but courteously to Frodo before turning to the room at large, saying, "My father might have unmade this thing, but I cannot, for greater strength went into its making than I have ever possessed." Then his tone lightened, though his face did not, and he added, "For once, it would seem, we shall all wish that my father was here!"

As Curufin seemed to have no further interest in speaking with him, Frodo turned to Elrond for an explanation, but found that he was engrossed in a conversation with two of the other strangers. One had night-dark hair and, but for the light that glowed in his eyes, might well have been an elf of Imladris, but the other, who had spoken first, seemed, in the bright sunlight of that autumn day, to be crowned with flame. As Frodo watched, Elrond fiercely embraced the dark-haired elf, smiling in a way that was very much at odds with all of the expressions Frodo had seen him wear in the past. Finding Elrond unlikely to answer, Frodo turned to Gandalf. Pippin, however, forestalled him by appearing from his hiding place behind the door and asking of the room at large, "Will someone please explain to me what is going on?"

Too concerned with the appearance of the strange Elves to concern himself with intruding hobbits for the moment, Elrond turned from his friends to address his baffled visitors, "Counsellors and friends of this Last Homely House, I bid you greet the seven sons of Fëanor, Maedhros, Maglor, Celegorm, Caranthir, Curufin, Amrod, and Amras, returned from Valinor to aid us in our battle against Sauron."

This announcement produced very different effects on the varied folk in the room. Glorfindel smiled as one who knew something that was hidden from others, and bowed low to the newcomers, some of whom returned the gesture. Erestor and Galdor of the Havens looked thunderous. Legolas, for all his height and clear strength, seemed suddenly very young, like a strong fir-tree in its coat of green set beside a mighty, lightning-scarred oak. Indeed, all the Elves of the Council, even Elrond himself, seemed suddenly younger, though there was no clear difference of face between them that might explain this seeming. Legolas’ expression of open wonder was tempered by what looked like fear. For the first time since Frodo had met him, Aragorn seemed uncertain what to do, but his face revealed little. Gloin and Gimli rose to their feet and bowed low to the fire-haired Elf who had spoken with Elrond — Frodo thought he was Maedhros — and he returned the courtesy. Boromir looked rather as though he was not certain whether or no he was awake. Frodo felt himself more out of place than ever, confronted by seven of the great heroes (or villains) from Bilbo’s oldest and most mysterious tales. Merry, Pippin, and Sam (who had all come out of the woodwork, as Elrond seemed disinclined to send them away) were not at all mollified by Elrond’s introduction. If it was meant as an explanation, it had not explained much to them. This time, it was Merry whose confusion broke through first. "Yes, but who are they and what does that mean?"

The fair-haired son made as though to step forward, his face thunderous, and Frodo realised that he was facing the kinslayers of Alqualondë and challengers of balrogs as well as the greatest craftsmen of the First Age, but Curufin held him back, and replied, "I could ask the same of you, small ones who come bearing great rings. The tapestries of Vairë have made no mention of beardless Naugrim!"

"Beardless what?" Pippin cried, as Gimli and Gloin gave lower-pitched rumbles of protest. The fair-haired one, who might be Caranthir or Celegorm, Frodo was unsure, abruptly stopped scowling and seemed to be muffling laughter. Maedhros, however, stepped forward, and in a clear voice cried, "Enough! We did not come here to quarrel, but to aid the folk of Middle-Earth in their troubles. To do that we must know what those troubles are. My brothers and I come late to the council, it seems. Some of the history of this troubled age we have learnt of the tapestries of Vairë: that Thauron’s Ring has been found and that his might once more threatens the Free Peoples, but there is much that we do not know. Who is it that stands against this threat? Who allies with the Free Peoples, and who stands against them? What is Thauron’s might, where are his forces? If we are to serve you well, there is much that we must know."

Elrond was the one to answer, saying, "Of the military might of the Enemy and the Men who stand against him, let Boromir speak, for it is he who knows best. But of the Elves I will speak. Galadriel, who once was called Artanis, holds the land of Lothlorien, east of the mountains, nigh to the Redhorn Gate — Erestor, have you a map?"

Erestor briefly disappeared and reappeared with a map, which Elrond laid out on a nearby table. Maedhros gathered his brothers around, and Elrond pointed out the various realms as he continued to explain, "Thranduil Oropherion, father of Legolas, who has come to this council" (here he indicated the young Elf) "holds Greenwood the Great, now called Mirkwood. Sauron has a stronghold there, though he was driven from it once by the White Council — Mithrandir, myself, Galadriel, and Curunir — and we fear that it is inhabited again by one or more of his Ringwraiths. It is perhaps from Thranduil that we can hope for the greatest might of arms. Rivendell has warriors enough for her defence, but no more than a few hundreds can I offer you to march away to war, for Sauron’s might is great enough, I deem, to strike at all of us with force enough to keep our armies occupied, while placing his main strength against Gondor and Rohan — here and here. Lorien’s strength does not lie in force of arms, though Galadriel was great even among the Noldor of old, as well you know."

"Will Thranduil son of Oropher ride to war with the House of Fëanor, do you think?" Maedhros seemed to address his question to both Elrond and Legolas, but it was the latter who answered.

"My father has not forgotten the ancient grievance of our house against the House of Fëanor, but he has a newer grievance against Sauron, who slew his father at the Battle of Dagorlad. Nevertheless, I know not what he will do, for when last the folk of Greenwood the Great rode out to war, their losses were great and they have not been forgotten. For myself, I hold that this is the hour when all the rifts designed by our Enemy must be healed and the free peoples must stand together. I will fight beside you."

Maedhros respectfully inclined his head to the young prince, and answered, "Then for your alliance, Legolas Thranduilion, I am most grateful. I hope that with your influence and Elrond’s, your father may be persuaded to join his allies among Men and Elves in this war.

"What then of Men, Boromir? What strength is in our allies of old?"

Boromir stepped up to join the group around Elrond’s map. "Our main stronghold is here, in my city of Minas Tirith. We have some thousands of soldiers in the City herself and the neighbouring strongholds of Osgiliath and Cair Andros, which guard the crossings of Anduin together with the wall of the Pelennor, which is now being repaired by my orders; we hope to be able to call in, say, six or seven thousands from the outlands of Belfalas and Dol Amroth, here and here, in the case of a serious assault.

"There are a further three hundreds of Rangers in Ithilien, here, secretly, to keep watch upon our Enemy’s movements. They can be recalled to the City at need. My brother Faramir leads them. But we have not the strength to repel all the forces of Mordor. His armies grow as ours dwindle, and he has at his command some nameless fear that drove even the bravest of our folk back from the eastern bank of Anduin, which he now holds. Only by destroying the bridge of Osgiliath did we prevent him from taking the western bank."

"It seems, then," Elrond added, "that our Enemy has already sent forth his deadliest servants. The Nazgûl they are called, and only the mightiest of our people can drive them away."

"Ring-wraiths, the name means," Maglor said in puzzlement. "What are they? The wraiths of men have but little power to either hurt or frighten even their own kin, and still less to harm us."

"They are men to whom Sauron gave rings of power, great rings which prolonged their lives beyond all measure of mortal kind. They have not died, but they have faded until they are not living, either, and their wills are utterly enslaved to Sauron’s, even though he no longer holds the master ring, for he holds their rings. They are not visible to mortal sight, but great fear and great power lies in them. I need not fear them, nor Galadriel, nor Glorfindel, but there are few others even in Rivendell who can ride openly against the Nine."

"And what of this Rohan?"

Once again, Boromir it was who answered, "Rohan’s strength is less known to me, but it has always lain chiefly in horsemen. Theoden might, I deem, send ten thousands of riders to our aid, but he would leave his own land but lightly guarded against Saruman, whom Mithrandir says is now our foe. And beyond that, some strange malady lies on Theoden. His son Theodred leads the cavalry of Rohan, while Theoden sits at home in Edoras. Such was not the custom of the Rohirrim of old, for Theoden is not yet too old to ride to war, and he has no other son."

"Indeed, some evil has come to Rohan," Gandalf added. "Little of welcome did I find, where once I would have found great friendship as an ally in the war on Sauron. Theoden would hear nothing of me save to bid me take a horse and go, and it is unlike him to so treat a guest, even an unwelcome one. He is much in the company of a counsellor of his house of the name Grima, whom the people call Wormtongue."

"Ill counsellors are ill tidings, the more so for that we cannot spare allies. I will send to Rohan and learn more of this. Maglor, if so long on the plains of the Gap have not made you weary of horses, perhaps you. But more of that later.

"What news of the Khazad do you bring, Gloin and Gimli of Erebor? I have seen records of your deeds in the tapestries of the Halls, and of the great valour of your folk against both Dragon and Orcs."

It was Gloin who replied, "The fall of the Dragon was not of our doing, but the Orcs, aye, we can claim that. Not all is well at the Lonely Mountain. Many of our folk went away into Moria, following Balin and Nori and Ori and Oin, in the hope that we might retake it, but naught have we heard from them for many years, and but lately one that we deem to be of the fell Nazgûl came to us offering alliance. King Dain sent him away answerless twice, but the third time, he says, is to come soon. We fear that if he is refused, he will return with strength of arms. What aid we might offer to an alliance beyond our strong walls and steadfast resistance, I know not. Maybe none, or maybe much. We do not know the enemy’s numbers."

"No more do I. But ere we turn to the ranks of our foes, there is one more of our friends to speak of, and a new one. Frodo of the Shire: what aid may we expect from your folk? What strength in arms do you have?"

"Good gracious heavens me! I don’t think you quite understand the Shire, my lord. We hobbits are no warriors. If we have a lord at all, I suppose it would be the Thain, but he hasn’t called the Shire-muster for — it must be nigh on a thousand years now. We sent a few bowmen to one of the battles of the North-Kingdom, Bilbo says, but they never came back, and we’ve not bothered with the wars of the world since. I doubt you’d find more than ten blunt swords in all the Shire, and all the bows are for hunting. It is quite by accident that we find ourselves in this council of the great ones!"

"If I have learned aught in the halls of Mandos," Maglor replied, "it is that naught happens by accident. You are in the councils of the great ones, as you put it, because you ought to be. Evil is oft not defeated by arms, though arms are an aid. You undervalue yourself, I deem, for did you not come here, bearing a great evil, with but five companions, all save one of your own kind, hunted by these wraiths of terror, and yet survive and hold to your purpose? That was no small deed."

"Like to the folk of Haleth, then, I deem you," Caranthir said, "strong ever in defending their own borders, but lovers of independence over all, and slow to ride to wars not their own. Yet my brother has spoken truly: there is strength in you, though not, perhaps, for deeds of arms."

Frodo was somewhat embarrassed by this evaluation of Hobbits, and sat down in confusion. Fortunately for him, Maedhros had turned back to Elrond and Boromir, and asked, "Now, what of our Enemy?"

"Of that Boromir knows more than do I, but I can say that he has long been gathering strength of arms from the Easterlings and Haradrim, whose countries lie south and east of Mordor, here, as well as breeding Orcs in great numbers. The odds are not good."

"The odds are never good. That at least has not changed. Boromir?"

"What orcs the Enemy has bred in the Black Land, we do not know. He could have farms and sources of water by the bitter inland sea of Nurnen, enough to feed many thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands. But none of our scouts have dared the fences of the Black Land for many years, and what lies within we do not know save as ancient legend.

"The Easterlings that rally to him, however, we have some count of. When last I was in Gondor, my brother’s reports placed their number somewhere near 150,000, but more have doubtless come since, and they leave and return on his errands, so we have no certain count."

"And what of his greater weapons? The dragons and balrogs?"

Boromir stopped, taken aback, and it was Gandalf who stepped in, with "There have been no balrogs seen in Middle-Earth for years beyond count, as you well know, Maedhros! As for the dragon, Bard of Laketown saw to that, with some help from our good Gloin and of course Bilbo. The worst that the Enemy has to throw at us now — at least the worst individually — will be the Nazgûl and a fair number of trolls."

"And Mumakil," Boromir put in.

"Mumakil? What fell beasts are they?"

"They are not the Enemy’s creation, so far as we know. The Easterlings use them for war, as we do horses, but they are far greater in size, and have great tusks and trample down men in battle, and bear great war-towers upon their backs. The Easterlings Faramir has reported have been bringing them into Mordor in some number. They will be dangerous to cavalry, and worse to infantry. Arrows cannot bring them down unless they are struck in the eye, though siege engines might do it."

"Then that, at least, is better than I had hoped. You cannot blame me, Mithrandir, for asking after dragons: the Enemy never had a shortage of them, however many we slew, and for all the valour of the Hosts of Valinor, not all the balrogs, I deem, were slain in the War of Wrath. If Thauron finds a way to wake any of those who fled and were hidden, it may go ill with our allies. In any case, we should assume that Thauron has three times as many orcs as he has Men, if not more, as our first guess. But we must find a way of bettering that guess.

"Some of us must go to Gondor, some to Rohan, and some to scout Mordor. And the Ring, too, we must take thought for. If it is destroyed, what becomes of Thauron and his hosts?"

It was Elrond who replied. "We do not know all, not for certain. But Sauron poured much of his power into that ring, and that power will not return to him if the ring is destroyed. Thus he will lose much of his native strength, and control of the Nine Rings along with it. What will happen to the Three Rings, we cannot say, nor what will happen to his armies, but of this I am certain, that the Ring’s destruction would remove the will that drives the creatures of evil and that binds the Nazgûl to the world. The Orcs would be a formidable host still, but rudderless, driven to no more than to infest the mountains and trouble travellers. If the Ring is destroyed, our chief concern will be the Enemy’s Men."

Maedhros withdrew with his brothers, Gandalf, and Elrond for a little while, and they spoke quickly in the musical tongue of the Elves over the Sea. Few, perhaps, of those gathered understood what was said, and those who did made no sign. When they turned back to the company, it was Elrond who spoke first.

"Friends and counsellors, when this counsel was begun, it was the meed of desperate folk, facing a power too great to be defeated by strength of arms and stratagems. That is no longer true. Desperate indeed our cause remains, but no longer hopeless. Before, our best hope was to endure Sauron’s attacks long enough for the Ring to be destroyed. Now, perhaps, we have the strength to draw him out, keep his Eye fixed on the outer world, while a few of our folk carry the Ring to the Cracks of Doom, where it may be destroyed, thus crippling his armed might and granting us victory. If this plan is to succeed, however, all the enemies of the One Enemy must be in accord with one another. This is, as Legolas says, the time to forgive old grievances."

Maedhros stepped in. "In the last war, the Great Enemy underestimated the might of the Atani and deemed only the Eldar worthy of his attention. Now, it seems, his lieutenant is doing the reverse. The Eldar are leaving Middle-Earth, and our numbers are dwindling, so he will focus his armies on the world of Men. It is there that we can draw him out. Some of us must go to Gondor and Rohan, and should not go alone.

"Isengard, too, is a threat, but one more easily dealt with. Curunir is young in the craft of evil, and his stronghold is the lesser. I judge that we should deal with him first and secure Rohan’s flank from attack. Then we can focus all our powers on a single front. Mithrandir, Curunir was once one of your order. Will you go to Isengard and see him and his army overthrown?"

"I will go, but I have not the strength to overthrow Saruman alone, and his army will not be easily dealt with."

Celegorm, with a curious gleam in his eye, turned to Gandalf. "You say he lives nigh Fangorn forest, and has begun great works of industry. Such industry requires fuel. Has he touched the forest?"

"He had begun, when I looked from the top of the tower of Orthanc, but what have trees to do with this?"

Maglor had evidently caught Celegorm’s idea, though it remained unclear to the rest of the company. "You who travelled in company with Aiwendil, have you so soon forgotten the Onodrim? Ents, they would be, in the tongue of this time. They were made that Yavanna’s trees might not be guardless from the axes of the Dwarves, but they will more gladly seek vengeance against Orcs than against the Children of Illuvatar. Morgoth’s forces were not swift to cut down the trees of the forest-shepherds even at the height of his power, save when they came in great number."

Boromir broke in, "Surely the Ents are nothing but an old wives’ tale? We of Gondor no longer venture into the forest of Fangorn, and as memory dwindles, strange tales come in its place. Trees that speak? This is a council of war, not a gaggle of children!"

Curufin surveyed Boromir with offended scorn. "Your memory may dwindle, son of Denethor. Ours does not. I saw the Sun rise in the East for the first time, and the memory is as clear now as the day upon which it was made. I saw the Evening Star when it was yet but a jewel resting in my father’s hand. If I say that a thing was, you may be sure that it was.

"But enough of that. Mithrandir, what of the Onodrim? Or has their race failed in the count of the long years?"

"It has not, though I wonder that you think of so hidden and peaceful a folk as an aid against Saruman!"

"Hidden?" It was Celegorm again who spoke. "Perhaps. But not peaceful, not when their trees are in danger. Saruman, as you name him, will have great need of wood for his craft. Put it so, to them, and I think you will not lack for allies. Isengard is a fortress of stone, but even stone is not wholly safe from the Onodrim."

"Nay," Maedhros mused, "Even with the Onodrim in his train — and they are not easily roused — I would not send the mightiest in my army alone against a Maia, shrouded in flesh or no. Wherein lies Saruman’s greatest art? He does much with smithcraft and metal, it seems — was he of the people of Aulë? — but no matter. What is his greatest skill now?"

"He was indeed, but the greatest peril to those who would speak to him is his voice. Few may safely hear him and not be swayed: you and your brothers, Elrond, Galadriel, and perhaps myself, now that his evil is revealed, but no others would I trust alone with him. The weak of will whom he does not desire to control will hear and remember only that he spoke with great wisdom and that a great desire woke in them to assent to all he said, that they might be considered wise also. Some, however, his voice conquers utterly, and they hear it endlessly, whispering to them even when they are far away."

"Maglor, then — but no, I need you with the Rohirrim, and there is no time to delay, for with Mithrandir's escape Saruman will know himself revealed; the attack will come soon and we must be braced to meet it — Curufin. Your craft has ever been in cunning words. Will you go to join Mithrandir? He will have need of eloquence with the Onodrim as well as with Saruman."

"I will go. Let the silver-tongued son of Fëanor set himself against the serpent-tongued counsellor, and we shall see who has victory!" Curufin smiled to himself as he spoke, and it was not a kind smile. Frodo did not envy Saruman.

"Silver-tongued? Brother, that epithet is mine," Maglor said.

"Enough," Maedhros said tolerantly. "You may have it out with Curufin after the war whose words were more silver." Maglor subsided.

"Now for Rohan proper. We should send a Man to Rohan as well as Maglor, that the strangeness between our folk does not interfere with this alliance. Boromir, you are known in Rohan. Will you…"

"Nay, stay a moment," Elrond said. "Two Men we have among us, and both must go to Gondor, but one will be more welcome than the other. Boromir is the Steward’s Son of Gondor, but Aragorn is the rightful King."

"Then should not Boromir go to Rohan, that Aragorn may…ah. You said Steward’s son. What of the Steward? Will he welcome the King?"

Maedhros turned to Boromir, but it was Aragorn who answered, "I think not. I served under Ecthelion, father of Denethor, under another name, and even then Denethor loved me not. Were I to come to his city without force of arms calling myself King, there would be hard words and perhaps more than words. He would not refuse the claim of a true King, but he would not accept my claim as true."

Boromir reluctantly bowed his head in acquiescence.

"You command no force of arms, then, my lord Aragorn? Elrond did not tell me of your people among the powers of this age."

"My people, lord Maedhros, are few and scattered. We have dwindled into a hidden folk of the Wild, though we fight ever against the creatures of the Enemy. Even had we a force to match that of Gondor, I would not carry the threat of war against my own people. If I am to be king, I shall be king by right and not by force."

"If I am any judge of men, and your kinsmen are like to you, then the few that may be gathered will be worth more than may be measured by numbers. Will you send forth messengers and gather such of your folk as you can?

"But I spoke not of war. Too much is at stake to risk quarrels over kingship. To Rohan I think I would send you if I had the command, and Boromir to Gondor, that you may be near to Gondor and yet not too near, and, at need, appear as a chieftain of the Rohirrim."

"To Rohan I will go, then, with you, my lord Maglor, and ere I go, I will send messages to my folk, to gather in Rivendell for war."

"Let it be so. Now for the rest: we must send messengers to Lorien, to Greenwood, and to Erebor, to gather such of their forces as may be gathered for the assault, and we must send scouts to Mordor to learn what may be learned. I will myself go to Gondor with Boromir, I think, for it is nearest to Mordor and there Thauron’s stroke will fall the hardest. Amrod, Amras: you, of my brothers, bear the least infamy, and you are swift riders. One of you must go to Greenwood, with Legolas if he will allow it; the other to Lorien, with some of the House of Elrond to ensure that Artanis does not close the gates of her city in your face! Caranthir, I deem that you should go to Erebor. You have had many dealings with the Khazad. That leaves Celegorm for Mordor: well. You are, perhaps, the best of us for a scouting mission, but do not forget that you are there to estimate the enemy's numbers, not to reduce them, however tempting it may be! Boromir, if my brother travel with us to Minas Tirith, can your Rangers guide him to the walls of Mordor and tell him what is known of the lay of the land within?"

"They can indeed, though it is a perilous venture."

"Perilous it is, yet it must be done, or we shall be fighting blind. Are we all agreed upon this plan?"

Legolas gave a shallow bow to the twins, who returned the courtesy, and said in a clear voice that all the council could hear, "My father sent me here with authority to treat for the folk of the Greenwood. I stand with you. Let Ambarussa come with me, and we shall raise an army worthy of the Last Alliance."

Gloin pondered a moment, and answered, "The folk of the Mountain have ever stood against the Enemy and all his devices. We stand with you."

Elrond bowed his head gravely, and said, "Then it is agreed. My sons Elladan and Elrohir shall accompany Ambarussa to Lorien and ensure their welcome. Artanis will hardly turn away her grandsons, whatever the company they bring with them."

Boromir looked at Maedhros, and said, "This is strange beyond our wildest hopes, that out of the Elder Days help should come to Gondor. There are those, true, who have always held that the King would return: but you, my lords, no tale has prepared us for! Nevertheless, you almost give me hope. To Gondor I will take you, my lord Maedhros: may my father welcome us!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Sons of Fëanor do not have lisps. They say _Thauron_ instead of _Sauron_ because it is a more archaic pronunciation which Fëanor and his house kept even after Quenya had switched the "th" to "s" in most cases.
> 
> Comments and feedback of all kinds are very welcome, and I will do my best to reply! Especially, please let me know if you find any mistakes.
> 
> This work is primarily book-canon, but there are bits of movie canon too, such as Merry and Pippin's presence at the CoE, because it simplifies things.


	2. The Question of the Ring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With matters military out of the way for the moment, the next obvious question is: what is to be done with the Ring? Frodo, Elrond, Maglor and Maedhros all have opinions.

"Good," Maedhros replied. "To Gondor you and I shall go. Now to the last matter, and not the least weighty, must we turn: what shall be done with the Ring?"

Frodo rose again, and faced the company, saying, "Aragorn, if the Ring belongs to any man here, it belongs to you. Will you not take it?"

"That I will not. It belongs to no man, and it answers to no man. Nor will I bear it to Gondor, where I deem it would bring madness and horror."

"Then, surely, one of you, my lords, will take this thing? It is too great a matter for us Shire-folk."

What Celegorm or Curufin might have said to this was never known, for Maglor answered in words of power that awed all that stood in that company, for he stood suddenly tall as a great oak in the fullness of its days, strong as ancient stone, older than the very valley wherein they stood: "Hallowed were the Silmarils in their light, and in our foolishness we pursued them to our doom, and we ended in darkness, in flame and in agony. Cursed is the Ring in its might, and in its lure I see the cunning of Thauron like a dark snare set to catch whosoever weareth it: Touch it I will not, nor will brother of mine! Enough have I seen of gems of power, of rings and necklaces strung with star-fire: war have I made for jewels in grief. No hand will I lay to this thing!"

And Maedhros, taller even than his brother, crowned, as it seemed, with very flame, bowed, in that moment, with ancientry and ancient grief, answered in a voice that was like unto the moving of stone where Maglor’s was like the rushing of mighty waters in their power: "No hand will I lay to jewel or to ring. I paid for my foolishness once in fire. No such error shall I make again. Keep it, Frodo of the Shire, if you will, or give it to another, but not to me."

Elrond was the first to speak in the silence that fell, and he said, "That you do not want this thing is perhaps the best safeguard you could have against its power, yet you have chosen wisely, for this is too great a matter for the great, and the small must perforce take it. Nevertheless, it is too great a burden for any to lay on another. He who bears it must do so of his own will. One of you who stands in this Council must, at least for a time, carry this thing. Who shall do so, and see it borne to Mordor, to the fires of Mount Doom?"

And as the Dwarves rose to their feet — to volunteer or to protest, none knew — and the Elves looked round in consternation, Frodo heard his own voice, small but clearly heard, saying, "I will take the ring to Mordor, though I do not know the way."

And Elrond turned to him, and said, _"Frodo of the Shire, this task, I believe, was appointed to you_, and thought I lay it not upon you, yet I say that you do well to take it up."

And Maedhros, lord of the Sons of Fëanor, general and king and warrior, knelt before Frodo of the Shire, and said, "To your task, Frodo, mine is but the helper, for if Thauron be not undone, perhaps not all the might of the Sons of Fëanor will serve to see him destroyed: yea, though we might defeat him hand to hand, yet could his armies overrun Middle-Earth. I will see you and whatever companions we may choose for you safe into Mordor, aye, and safe out again, though it cost all the blood in my veins. I will not leave Middle-Earth under darkness again. Never again shall I swear an oath, but for this, I give my word to you, and as Elrond can tell you," here his voice grew less serious, and for a moment he smiled, "the House of Fëanor is nothing if not faithful to its word."

Even in that moment, Frodo felt as though the Quest to which he had laid his hand was settling around his shoulders like a cloak, and in the greatness of his task, he found words to answer: "Then, my lord, I will bear the Ring to Mordor and see it destroyed, though it cost my life in the destroying: for though I am no mighty warrior or lord of the Eldar, yet I too love Middle-Earth, and would see it saved, if I can."

Maedhros clasped Frodo’s arm as an equal before he rose once more to his feet, and asked the council, "What, then, shall the Ringbearer do? Shall he remain in safety in Rivendell while our scouts ride out to make plans of war?"

Elrond replied, "That cannot be. The Ulairi will bear to Sauron the news that the Ring has entered here, and the strength of Rivendell cannot repel the forces that he would surely send here, were the Ring to remain. It must go to a place of strength, or straightway to Mordor."

"To Gondor," Aragorn said, "this thing should not go, for ever Men have been quick to fall under its spell."

"In Lorien it might be safe," Galdor offered.

"In Lorien it would be a temptation perhaps too great to bear," Gandalf replied. "To those of greatest power, the Ring is the greatest temptation. In any case, Lorien lies over the Pass of Caradhras, and Caradhras is not kind to travellers. Such a power travelling through the mountain passes would be in peril both of orcs and of the mountain itself."

"But the Ring must be guarded, either by power or by secrecy," Maedhros replied. "And Thauron’s spies, Elrond tells me, surround Rivendell. If any folk set forth, it will be known, and if any party is weaker or stronger than another, it will be noted. If there were no other scouting parties sent forth, perhaps he would have esteemed a small party of wanderers in the Wild little. But as it now stands, he will know that we set forth to build alliances and wage war. No party will be safe: I hold therefore that the Ringbearer should go with Mithrandir, who has laboured long to bring about this resistance to Thauron and, I deem, is safest from himself, for he fears himself. Curufin, too, knows all too well the peril of such heirlooms as the Ring. There is little in Middle-Earth, unless indeed Thauron himself comes forth to reclaim his Ring, that can stand against an Istar and a Son of Fëanor together. And either can restrain the other, should he fall, long enough for Frodo to escape to safety."

"We cannot send the Ringbearer in a party of three," Boromir exclaimed. "Two warriors, however mighty, cannot turn back a whole host of Orcs, and we know not that the Enemy will not send such a host after the Ring."

"You both speak truly," Elrond replied. "But we must take thought for whom we shall send, and already the sun lowers. For this day, let the council end, and Maedhros, Mithrandir and myself shall think more on this matter. Tomorrow, or the day after, we shall assemble once more, to put our thoughts before the council."

"Begging your pardon, Master Elrond," Sam broke in, "but I’ve got just one thing to say before this Council is done and you lot go to decide who’s going with Mr. Frodo. I didn’t let Mr. Frodo leave the Shire alone, and I’m not letting him leave this place alone either! I’d like to see any of you try to stop me going with him!"

"Here, Sam! We’re going too! You may have spied on him for us, but we put together the party that got to Bree past those Black Riders, and I’d like to see you leave us behind now." This was Merry.

Pippin, too, put his word in: _"If you wish to leave us behind, you will have to tie us up in sacks to stop us!"_

Boromir and Elrond looked doubtfully at the hobbits. "Faithful friendship is not to be lightly cast aside," Elrond said, "but you do not know that which you ask to do."

"Friendship is indeed very well," Boromir added, "but I meant warriors, and that you are not."

"If the Enemy sends out his full force after the Ring, then we have not the warriors to stop him, were all Rivendell emptied," Glorfindel answered. "But the Ringwraiths are without steeds or robes, and have, we hope, returned to Mordor empty and shapeless. Sauron’s other servants cannot, as they can, feel the presence of the Ring. He has, for the moment, no sure way to track it. By sending out the several parties at the same time, we leave him in doubt as to which has the Ring, or whether it has been left in Rivendell. He cannot send a host after every party of travellers that leaves Rivendell. If we play our hand well, we may keep him in doubt long enough to begin our war, and once the war has begun he will be certain that the ring is in a place of strength. He would not, in our place, declare war without certainty of victory. He will weigh our motives in _the scales of his malice_, and measure them according to his own, and in so doing he will err."

Gandalf added, _"It is true that if they knew to what they went, none, perhaps, of these hobbits would dare to set out. But they would still wish to go, or wish that they dared, and be shamed and unhappy._ Who, indeed, knows what it is that he will find when he sets out upon a quest? There are those here who know better than any how little anyone understands of doom and great deeds when he sets his hand to them. Upon this venture, the friendship of hobbits may be of more value than we imagine. Sam, at any rate, will most certainly follow us should he be left behind!"

"Then," Elrond said, "let Sam and Frodo go with Mithrandir and Curufin to Isengard. As for the others, we will consider whether they should go and where."

The Council broke up after this. The hobbits retired to Bilbo’s room, as they wished to hold a council of their own. Elrond, Maedhros and Maglor discreetly disappeared after Elrond spoke to Erestor about making arrangements for their new guests. The others were, for the moment, left to their own devices. Celegorm deemed Boromir the person of greatest interest in the room, and they were soon immersed in a discussion of the hunting (of Orcs, mostly) that was to be had in Ithilien. Caranthir greeted Gimli and Glóin with a few words of Khuzdul, and followed it up with an enquiry about Erebor, its crafts and its history. The ensuing conversation seemed like to last for hours, for Caranthir had seen some of the great Dwarven cities of the First Age, and Gimli and Glóin were as eager to hear of what he had seen as he was to hear of what they had made and remade. Legolas went to speak to Amrod and Amras of the route to Mirkwood and what they might expect at the court of Thranduil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Italicised bits are quotes or close paraphrases from FOTR.


	3. The Unexpected Guests

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elrond, Maedhros and Maglor have a long-overdue conversation. The hobbits hold a council of their own, and come to some conclusions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nearly missed my update deadline this week, sorry guys. It's a nice long chapter to make up for that, though!
> 
> Warning for Maedhros so mentions of clinical depression and suicide, for the Dubious Twin Acquisition Incident and associated angst, and for Caranthir's very blunt opinions about Fingolfin and his duel with Morgoth.

Elrond spoke a few words to Erestor, asking him to look after their guests, expected and unexpected, and to secure him as much time undisturbed as possible. Then he led Maedhros and Maglor to his private study and closed the door. Maglor had greeted Elrond with great warmth at the Council, but Maedhros had stepped back from his embrace, then turned at once to the formal business of the Council. Elrond had no doubt that he had done so on purpose, whether because he did not wish to impose upon Elrond or because he did not wish to be embraced by Elrond at all, and now, facing Maedhros’ iron restraint and Maglor’s silence, he found himself uncertain what to say.

He had for centuries dreamed of finding Maglor riding into Imladris. It was possible, at least in theory, that he should do so; Elrond had seen to it that the wandering companies let hints drop of his location whenever they were near the unseen wanderer of the shores. In his more realistic moments, he had known that Maglor’s avoidance of all company extended even to him, and perhaps especially to him, given Maglor’s tendency to consider only the wrongs he had done to Elrond and Elros and not the kindnesses and love he had offered them. Elrond had never, however, quite given up hope that some day Maglor would realise that his absence pained his foster-son more than his presence could ever have done. Maedhros, on the other hand — well, Maedhros was dead, and, as far as the world knew, never to be reembodied. If he were to be reembodied, it would be in Valinor. People did not sail from Valinor to Middle-Earth unless they were Glorfindel. Elrond had never even allowed himself to dream about Maedhros returning. It would only reopen old wounds. After he and Elros received news of Maglor’s self-imposed exile and Maedhros’ suicide, they had spent more time, probably, than they should have in trying to think of what they might have done otherwise, but across every possibility of action that they put forward, the Oath had always loomed like a shadow. Elrond had long ago given up thinking of might-have-beens, of dreaming about hearing Maglor’s voice ring through the Hall of Fire or about showing his plans of the city fortifications to Maedhros and receiving his calm approval. It had hurt even when Elros was there to talk with him, when he was still in Lindon with Gil-Galad. Now that Elros and Gil-Galad were both gone, it was better left alone.

Now, however, he had in his study two of the people he had most loved and missed for two ages of the world. His happiness could only have been greater (his surprise could hardly have been) had it been Elros whose unexpected voice broke in on his council, and yet he could think of nothing to say. He became aware that he had been turning his gaze from Maglor, who had seated himself by the fire and was inspecting his slightly muddy boots with immense concentration, to Maedhros, who was leaning against the wall and failing to look nonchalant, and back again, with his mouth slightly open. When he did find words, they were not what he would have expected. He heard his own voice saying, "Did you have a pleasant journey?"

Maglor continued to study his boots as though he had not heard. Maedhros directed a brief scowl at his brother’s head. This had no effect, so he shrugged and said, "It was…odd." He made as though to say something else, thought better of it, thought better of that, and settled on saying, "Cirdan was very obliging."

In desperation, Elrond said, "I hear that the roads to Imladris are getting worse by the year. There is little traffic to the Havens these days. I hope you did not find the way too difficult."

Maglor took pity on them both and answered, "We have travelled worse, though the road to Imladris is not over-easy to find. And the end of the journey was worth any trouble we had upon the way. You have built a very fair city here."

"Thank you," Elrond said. Then silence fell again. He was almost desperate enough to ask, "How did you find the Halls of Mandos?" when inspiration struck and instead he asked, "Maglor, how do you come to be here?"

"Meaning how did my brothers find me?"

Elrond smiled. Maglor, for all his long exile, did not seem to have changed very much in spirit. He certainly had not faded, which had always been one of Elrond’s fears — in fact, it seemed that he had done the reverse. He looked better now than Elrond had ever seen him. "More or less. I wasn’t going to say it like that."

"You should give Celegorm a lesson or two in tact someday."

Maedhros made a soft sound that might have been a repressed snort, and said, "That, I fear, is a lost cause. You would have better fortune teaching rhetoric to Caranthir."

"You could use a lesson in tact yourself," Maglor retorted. "Anyway, I suspect that part of Cirdan’s 'obliging' conduct consisted in providing my brothers with all he knew of my whereabouts. The first I knew of it was when Celegorm tackled me from behind a tree, called me a fool, and began shouting to my brothers that he had 'found him…tell Ambarussar that it’s settled I’m the better tracker, now come help me hold him before he runs off,' as though I would want to escape…I thought I had finally gone truly mad."

Maglor bowed his head to hide his tears, and Maedhros stepped forward to lay a hand on his shoulder. As Elrond, too, stepped forward to embrace Maglor, Maedhros made to step backwards again. For a moment, Elrond was seven again, newly unafraid of his captor-foster fathers, waking in the morning to see Maedhros instead of Maglor at their door, and springing unthinking to embrace him. Maedhros froze, just as Maglor had done the first time Elrond had greeted him in that way, but instead of bending down to lift Elrond up from the ground, he took two sharp steps backwards. Ignoring little Elrond’s hurt, he had said, "Time to be up, boys," and stridden away down the hall before Elros had tumbled out of bed.

Elrond had been too young, then, to know that Maedhros did not hate him. He had been made entirely sure that Maedhros did hate him later that day, when he had taken the twins out to the training fields for the first time after Maglor’s lessons in music and history were over. He was a ruthless instructor, even to seven-year-old boys. He corrected their grip on the wooden practice swords over and over again until even patient Elrond wanted to scream in frustration, and put them through the same drills until their arms ached. He made them both learn to hold the sword in either hand and in both. He did not even let them fight each other that day, or for many days later. Elrond had asked Maglor, that evening, if Maedhros hated them. Maglor had looked sad, but all he said was, "Oh, Elrond, it is not you that my brother hates." Even as young as he was, Elrond had tried not to make Maglor sad, so he had never brought the subject up again, even though he still did not understand.

It had been five years later, almost to the day, that Elrond had understood what Maglor meant, the first time that he had ever beaten Maedhros in a sparring match. He had seen the utter relief in his partner’s eyes for just a moment and realised, in a horrible flash, that Maedhros wanted the twins to be able to kill him if necessary. After that day, he had looked back over everything that Maedhros did with him and Elros in a new light, and had seen a strange, self-denying affection in Maedhros’ attempt to make them hate him so that he would not hurt them by leaving, yet teach them everything he knew before he left.

Elrond, no longer seven, knew that Maedhros was attempting to allow Elrond to have his moment with Maglor uninterrupted, so he decided to take a leaf out of Elros’ book and be Mannish. Without letting go of Maglor, he lunged forward and put his arm around Maedhros’ waist in a firm embrace. To Elrond’s surprise, instead of stiffening and stepping back, Maedhros slowly knelt down and carefully put one arm around Maglor’s shoulders and the other around Elrond’s. "I missed you," Elrond finally said. "Both of you. And if either of you ever does anything like that again, I promise you that I will sail to Valinor, find you, and drag you out of the Halls of Mandos myself. It runs in the family, you know."

"Then in that case, as our family has caused quite enough trouble and tribulation for the Valar, I suppose that we shall have to keep out of trouble! At least out of that kind of trouble. I cannot promise you that we will be safe. Though if I die again, it might need a child of Luthien to persuade the Valar to release me from Mandos a second time."

Elrond was about to protest this remark when Maglor said, "Family! Now that reminds me. Maedhros, did you not say something of letters?"

"Letters?" Elrond asked.

Maedhros let go of Elrond and Maglor, and produced a packet of letters from somewhere in his cloak, and handed them to Elrond. Elrond nearly wept when he recognised his wife’s handwriting on the first one. "Celebrian?" he asked, voice shaking. "How is she?"

Maedhros smiled — a rare and heartening sight. "Very well. Very insistent that we carry letters to you and your children, and Artanis and Valar know who else. She has struck up a great friendship with her uncle Finrod, who has sent you a letter of his own, I believe. Most of the folk of Rivendell who have sailed have gathered around her, and they are building a house on Tol Eressea under her direction, with Finrod as architect, so that she will have a home for you to come to when you sail. She was far kinder to us than we deserved, and I fear that when you do come home, you will find that she has put in guest rooms for myself and all my brothers! I think that she would have sent me with a hamper of pastries if they would have kept over the voyage, and as a matter of fact she did send us with lembas."

Elrond laughed despite his tears. "That is better news than you know. She could find no joy in Middle-Earth when she left, not even in her children. I could heal her body, but there was nothing I could do to lift the fear and the memory of pain from her. There is healing in Valinor, they say, but I have never been there, and it was horribly uncertain to simply send her away, and know that I could not leave with her because my people here still needed me… I am so very glad that she has found hers."

"She has healed, and she will go on healing. Never fear. If there was healing for me, Elrond, who sought nothing but destruction in the end, then there is most assuredly healing for anyone who comes to seek it. She has befriended half of Tol Eressea already, and they will not let her be alone or afraid."

"You said she was designing a house?" Architecture had never been of particular interest to Celebrian.

"After a fashion. Finrod designs houses and she tells him what she likes and what she dislikes about each new version. They still had not managed to settle on a design that she was entirely satisfied with when we left, but Finrod seemed to be enjoying himself…Oh, and Gil-Galad sends his greetings to you as well. I believe he wrote you a letter, but he told me to greet you for him anyway, and threatened each of us individually with painful death if we managed to damage this age as badly as we did the last one. I rather got the impression that he was deigning to speak with me only as a means to communicate with you, and would much rather have pretended that I and my brothers were still safely in Mandos."

"Of course he did," Elrond sighed. "He thinks of Doriath and the Havens whenever he thinks of the House of Fëanor, I am afraid. He rather misjudged you, I think."

"He did not. I am extremely dangerous. We all are. You would be perfectly justified in having nothing to do with me or any of us."

"Atar, I wish you would not say things like that," Elrond cried in exasperation. "You were not singlehandedly responsible for all the destruction of the First Age of this world; even you have to admit that Morgoth passes you handily in that respect!"

At the word "Atar," Maedhros had gone very, very still. "Elrond," he said, in a curious, slightly choked voice, "did you mean that?"

"I did and I do, Atar. I mean it for both of you."

"Elrond, I do not deserve it. Maglor does, perhaps, but not me. I was not kind to you. I drove your mother to attempt to take her own life. I slaughtered the people of whom you were rightful lord. I abandoned you and your brother."

Elrond had sat down in the armchair opposite Maglor’s to look through the packet of letters. Before answering, he slowly rose to his feet, put his hands on Maedhros’ shoulders, and looked up to meet his eyes. "Ada Maedhros," he said firmly for the third time, "all of that is true, but it is not all the truth. Your swords destroyed my birthright twice over, and I do not forget it. Yet it is true also that you taught me how to fight and when not to. Your words drove my mother to fear, and your presence drove her to the cliffs: but you taught me when to listen and how to speak, when I speak, so that others can hear and heed me. You taught me to hunt and to make camp, to lead and to follow.

"Ada Maglor was right. This is a fair city that I have built here, and I love it. For me it holds nigh all that I love in this peril-shadowed world of ours. Look at the city plans and you will see your hand. Look at the place I chose and you will see what you taught me of fortifications and of stone for building. Look at the Hall of Fire, and you will see what Ada Maglor taught me of acoustics and the beauty of architecture. This city is a city of the House of Fëanor as much as of the Children of Luthien. The good that you did unto me and mine does not undo the evil, but neither does the evil undo the good. Even in life, you paid for the evil more heavily than most folk know. The Valar have released you from Mandos: if they do not hold your evil deeds against you, who am I to do so? Eärendil sired me, but you were fathers to me and Elros when we needed it most. You loved us as much as you could, enough to send us away when it was the right thing to do. And, finally, if you wish to continue to think of this matter in terms of debts, you owe me this."

Maedhros, for the second time that day, smiled at Elrond. "Well, anonya, if you wish to call upon the unpayable debt which I owe to you and your family by demanding that I accept your love as a son, I cannot complain." He grasped Elrond’s shoulder firmly for a moment before letting his hand fall. Elrond released him in turn, and nearly collapsed back into his chair.

Maglor, who had been watching the entire exchange and looking by turns startled, touched, and thoroughly pleased, turned to his brother and said, "Maedhros, the wall will stand up without you leaning on it. Pull up one of those other chairs!"

Maedhros obeyed without so much as a raised eyebrow of protest, which showed Elrond how deeply moved he was, and stretched his long legs out towards the fire. A comfortable silence fell.

After a few minutes, Elrond broke it once more. "Now," he said, "I know you have the lay of the land and estimates of the forces at play, but this is another world from that which you knew, in many ways. What do you want to know that you do not wish the Council to hear?"

Maedhros was the first to answer, "What, exactly, is the Ring? You say that Thauron poured much of his power into it, and I have no intention of touching it for that reason alone, but you speak as though there was more than power to it. Tyelperinquar’s rings have different intents, but while all of them would be in some measure dangerous to mortals, they can be controlled by those with greater power."

"It is unlike any artefact of power I have seen before. It has the power, which all the great rings have, of prolonging mortal life long beyond its bounds. A Man who held it would, sooner or later, become a wraith. It was, however, held for many years by what was once a Hobbit — the creature Gollum of which we spoke at the Council, if you heard that. He did not fade, but it has eaten away at his mind until he is wholly mad, and his only desire is to possess it once more. His body, too, is twisted almost out of the likeness of the Children of Illuvatar, though he is not an Orc. His life is bound to the Ring, it seems, for though he has lost it, he has not died. Aragorn captured him in the Dead Marshes — the site of the Battle of Dagorlad — but only, unfortunately, after Mordor had had its way with him. He had told all he knew to the Enemy, and so hobbits and the Shire had been revealed to him. He was given to the Wood-Elves to keep in prison, but an escape was contrived and they were not able to recapture him. He is at large still, if he was not taken back to Mordor.

"The Ring would not, however, do such things to an Elf or Istar who took it for his own. Such a one could command the Ring’s whole power, but in so commanding it, it would twist all his intentions from good to evil, until Middle-Earth had two Dark Lords fighting for dominion. The very desire of it was enough to turn Curunir to evil and madness. The possession of it would be worse.

"A Man like Aragorn, perhaps, faces that same danger, for the blood of Luthien runs in his veins, though at great remove. There is no-one who can wield it safely."

Maglor’s question was less tactical in its nature: "I did not wish to ask this in front of the Council, but what, exactly, are these Hobbits or Halflings? They are not Khazad, they are not Men, they are certainly not Eldar, but these, we were assured, are all the Children of Illuvatar that are or shall be! And now we find these Halflings springing from nowhere into history, bearing Thauron’s Ring!"

"That I cannot answer, for I do not know! Their own histories do not extend beyond their entrance into the Shire, which was about a millennium and a half ago, and even that has become something of a matter of myth. Mithrandir believes that they lived on the banks of the Anduin before that, and migrated into Eriador during Sauron’s first expansion of power, but apart from that we know nothing. They are simply Hobbits: perhaps they are some distant branch of Men, long sundered from others of their kind and from the rest of the world, caring little for anything save their own small affairs until circumstances thrust them out of their own quiet world — in which times, they have proven themselves a most hardy folk! You heard something of the business of Bilbo and the Dragon, but I should leave it to him to tell that tale. Suffice to say that he acquitted himself with the greatest courage. That, for many of us, was the first we had ever heard of the Halflings, and quite an introduction it made."

The remarkable Halflings, too, had retreated to a study for a council of their own.

"So what all did the Council talk about before we got there?" Merry asked.

"Not very much to the point!" Bilbo replied. "They traced the history of the Ring from its making all the way to its arrival here, which took nearly all of the morning, and a good tale it was. Some of it even I’d never heard before, and I’ve sat in the Hall of Fire and listened to their tales more nights than I can count. They were just getting to the question of what to do with the thing when the Sons of Fëanor showed up and took things over, and honestly, if it weren’t for Maedhros, I don’t think they would have decided anything at all, except possibly that the Ring needed to be destroyed, which I think we all knew anyway! Now it looks as though all that is to be decided is whether or not Merry and Pippin are to go or not, and with whom. Very efficient fellow, Maedhros."

"Elrond and that Boromir didn’t look all that sure that we should be going," Pippin put in worriedly. "After all, what could we possibly do to help such great lords of Men and Elves?"

"Well, you heard Maglor," Frodo said. "We’re not here by accident. Perhaps he meant that as a comfort, though I am not sure that it is. At any rate, Gandalf certainly thinks you ought to go, and it sounds as though Glorfindel does too."

"Now that Pippin mentions it, I’d just as soon go, but I don’t want to be a burden on the party!"

"Well," Sam said, "seems to me the best thing to do is to ask one of them!"

There was no arguing with that, so Merry and Pippin set out to find one of the Sons of Fëanor, preferably Maedhros, since he seemed more or less to be in charge. Several minutes of searching later, however, they were beginning to wonder where everyone had gone. Most of the people who had been at the council seemed to have vanished into thin air, leaving not so much as an echo behind. They were beginning to despair of finding anyone at all, when Pippin thought of putting his head into the room where the council had been held, and saw Caranthir deep in conversation with Gimli and Glóin. As the conversation seemed unlikely to end in the near future, after a little while, Merry stepped forward and said tentatively, "Er…my lord?"

Caranthir was evidently keen of hearing, for he turned at once and said, "Yes?"

"Well, my lord…"

"My name is Caranthir and all I’m lord of is a lovely stretch of seaweed. Perhaps the fish owe me allegiance. You do not."

"Caranthir, then — Merry and I wanted to ask, well, ought we to insist on coming with Frodo? At the council it seemed the only thing to do, but we don’t want to be a burden on anyone. Do you think we would be, on a quest like this?"

Caranthir appeared to consider this. Then he said abruptly, "Do you want the Ring?"

Merry was slightly taken aback. "No, of course I don’t."

"What would you do to see it destroyed?"

"Whatever I had to, I suppose."

"That’s not specific enough. Would you kill me? If I wanted it, if I was mad and ready to kill Frodo for it and take it to rule Middle-Earth, would you put a blade between my ribs?"

"Well, I…"

"I…"

"If Middle-Earth was in the balance, and you…yes, I suppose so."

"Good! Sensible of you. Finally, there's somebody with sense.

"Now would you say that in front of a council like this one, all convinced the Ring should be kept and used?"

"Not that they’d listen to folk like us!"

"But would you?"

"Well, yes, I suppose. But I’m still not sure we should come! We’re no great warriors, or generals, or anything like you."

"No. You’re not. Why do you think we even considered bringing you? The First Age had no shortage of generals and warriors. My brother Maedhros was the best general we ever had. He nearly defeated Morgoth: maybe he actually had a chance with his alliance, which is more than anybody else ever had: but a miss is as good as a mile, they say, and we missed. My uncle challenged Morgoth to single combat. Made a noble ending. A hero’s death, people said. He might as well have slit his throat quietly at home for all the good it did anyone. It would have made less mess for his sons to clean up, too, in the end. We don’t need more warriors. Well, we do, but we always did and we always will, and we’ve always gotten on well enough with what we had. What we really need is more folk with sense. If you have it, and you say the sense often and loudly, maybe someone will listen. Maedhros will. Maglor will. Then they’ll quiet the room for you: but you have got to be ready to say it and act on it in front of everybody else. That’s why you’re here. Elrond would say something about small people being better fitted to deal with great matters, or some such. I say you have sense and leave it at that. You want to come with me, I’ll take you. You want to go with your friends, I’ll back you. Go where you think you should."

Merry and Pippin were rather put out of countenance, but when they managed, together, to stammer out a "Thank you!" Caranthir snorted.

"Don’t thank me. I speak as I see."

"Well," Merry put in, a little emboldened, "thank you anyway. But where do you think we should go? I know I’d like to go with Frodo and Sam, but if the Enemy knows that Frodo carried the Ring here, maybe we shouldn’t put all the hobbits together. Glorfindel was talking about misleading him at the Council; shouldn’t Pippin and I go with another party?"

Caranthir looked pleased. "Well thought through, Master Brandybuck. If you want misdirection, go to Gondor with Maedhros. I can tell him for you. Thauron will expect the Ring to go there anyway."

Having said this, Caranthir evidently saw no more need for words. Merry and Pippin could think of nothing else to say, and so they thanked him again, respectfully requested that he would talk to Maedhros about them going to Gondor, and retreated back to Bilbo’s room, both heartened and a little intimidated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The portrayal of Maedhros and Maglor’s relationship with the twins in this chapter owes a lot to bunn and arrogantemu's fics, and to an unknown fic somewhere on this site which featured Maglor insisting that the twins be capable of defending themselves from him and his brother before they went into battle. My portrayal of Celebrian is primarily based on bunn's _Return to Aman_ series, because that version of Celebrian became my headcanon almost as soon as I read the series. Elrond's little speech about good and evil actions owes something to martial_quill's fic _take a chance on me_, which deals heavily with forgiveness. Elrond's line about loving as much as you can is inspired by Ook's fic _Spirit of Protection,_ which deals with children in dysfunctional families.
> 
> "Anonya" is Quenya for "my son" or "dear son". Maedhros means both.
> 
> Comment with your favourite character or pair of characters, and I will try to give them some time in the spotlight in the next chapter. I know Maedhros has kind of stolen the spotlight, but I promise that everyone will have plenty of screen time eventually!


	4. Many Departures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time is of the essence, and the Sons of Fëanor with their companions set out from Rivendell with all haste.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update! Hope y'all enjoy this new chapter.

Amrod and Amras, by a procedure known only to themselves, determined that Amras should go to Greenwood the Great with Legolas, and Amrod to Lorien with Elladan and Elrohir. The Ambarussar and Legolas were now wandering together through the gardens of the Last Homely House, and finding more in common with each other than might have been expected. 

"You dwell in the same wood as the lesser stronghold of Thauron, then?" Amras asked.

"It was Greenwood the Great before it was Mirkwood, though since Sauron’s stronghold was built it has become very evil in those places where my father’s realm is not maintained. We have never wholly driven him out, and there are other creatures of evil that dwell there and acknowledge no lord: chiefly the giant spiders, but even wargs and orcs make their way into our realm at times."

"So Ungoliant’s miserable whelps escaped the downfall of Beleriand!" Amrod cried. "Ever we hunted them through the woods of Thargelion, and such as sought to defile the meads of Ossiriand of the seven rivers we slew, but they had refuges where none could follow, in Tar-na-Fuin where the mind of Elf or Man turned to madness and horror. I knew not that any had escaped to trouble this world made anew."

"Aye, so they did, although they do not willingly come nigh to my father’s lands, for my folk have no mercy upon the giant spiders alone of all living creatures. But for long now the bounds of our realm have shrunken, until now what was once Greenwood the Great is called Mirkwood, and is known as much for the foul stronghold of Dol Guldor as for my father’s kingdom."

"By the grace of the Valar, that will soon change," Amras said grimly. "We should strike soon, before the news of our coming has reached Thauron’s ears. Councils are well, and plans are well, but we have but a little time ere our enemy learns of our presence. The further our plans have reached when he learns it, the better off we shall be."

"There is nothing that delays us save preparations," Legolas exclaimed, "and of those I have few indeed. Let us be gone with all speed to Greenwood."

"No more preparations have I to make," Amras replied. "We know all that we need of the lay of the land. Tomorrow let us be gone!"

"Not so swiftly as that, brother," Amrod said. "You must go to Lorien with the Sons of Elrond, and Caranthir goes to Erebor with the Dwarves. Our roads lie together for a time, and they lie through peril. Safety we may find in numbers. Let us speak to them and go together. Ere the week is out, I deem, we shall be ready."

Only a little later that day, Amrod, with hound-like intensity, managed to collect together all those who were east-bound save for the sons of Elrond, and together they sought out Elrond and made their plans known to him. "We know now all that we must needs know," Amras said. "Let us go swiftly and set my brother’s plans in motion before aught can warn the enemy of our presence!"

"Over-hasty I would deem this," Elrond replied, "but that our chief hope indeed lies now in speed. I will call my sons, and in two days you shall set out, as is your wish. Indeed, I shall call those others who are to depart, also, and they will not be long in following you. But tonight we of Rivendell shall show our hospitality to our guests."

Elrond was as good as his word, and despite the short notice, there was a feast of rare magnificence in the Great Hall that night. The seven sons of Fëanor sat at the high table with Elrond, Gandalf, and, despite their protests, Frodo and Sam. Once more, there was high merriment in the Hall of Fire afterwards. Elrond put Bilbo rather out of countenance by requesting his Song of Eärendil, and Maglor subsequently put him even more out of countenance by applauding enthusiastically and then drawing him aside to inquire about the finer points of Westron poetry, "which," he said, "our teachers in Valinor could throw very little light on, though they were thorough enough in their grammar!" (Bilbo soon overcame his reticence, and had to be gently drawn away by Frodo when Maglor was called upon for a song.)

Maglor did not sing the Noldolantë that night. Rather, at Elrond’s request, he sang the songs he had made of triumph and hope and steadfast resistance to evil in the days of the Siege of Angband. It was not for nothing that he was called the mightiest singer of the Noldor, only surpassed, if ever, by the long-lost Daeron of Doriath. Even Bilbo, accustomed as he was to the songs of the Elves, could only tear himself away when Maglor laid aside the harp and resumed his seat in the audience.

The next day, Bilbo took Frodo aside into his rooms and drew out of a small wooden chest a largeish parcel and two short swords in their scabbards. "Here, my lad. It seems you’re to set out sooner than I thought, and I thought you might have use for these. This is your sword from the barrow, but it is broken, you know, and I haven’t had time to have it mended, so, as I haven’t any more use for it, I thought you might like to have Sting instead!"

He drew out the elvish dagger and, with surprisingly _little effort, thrust it into a wooden beam._ "I dare say it will serve you as well as your old sword, or better! And there is this to go with it," he added, unwrapping the parcel to reveal gleaming silver metal. _"The Mithril shirt that Thorin gave me,"_ he explained. "I took it out of the Michel Delving mathom-house when I left, and now it may well be useful again! It will turn nearly any blade, and it’s light enough to wear under your clothes. It probably saved my neck from Thorin once, and perhaps it will save yours too. In any case, I’ll rest easier knowing you have _more than a bit of leather between you and Black Riders."_

Frodo thanked him, a little concerned that Bilbo seemed to think that, even with Gandalf himself and a Son of Fëanor to protect him, he might need armour. Still, he thought, with all that had been said at the council of not knowing what might happen on adventures, there was no telling where he would end up. Bilbo seemed to understand his look, and added, "Not that you don’t have some mighty folk looking after you, but you can never be too careful on an adventure, as you should know quite well by this time, I would think!" Frodo could hardly argue with that, so he took both the sword and the mail-shirt, thanked Bilbo again, and went away to see to his packing.

It was just as well that Bilbo had thought of giving him Sting and the mithril coat when he did, as he found out that all the assorted parties were to set out the next day as early as possible. When Sam heard it, he shook his head. "Not much for waiting, these folk from old stories!" he said, and went back to folding up his shirts.

So it was, that in the grey morning October the 27th, four hobbits, ten elves, two dwarves and two men stood in the courtyard of the Last Homely House, their breath making fog in the chill autumn air. The hobbits were rather uncomfortable, watching as the elves took leave of each other in their own tongue. Bilbo, shivering with the cold, merely stammered out, "G-good luck!" to them before returning to the warmth of the house. Five of the Sons of Fëanor stood in what looked like some sort of military formation, all facing outward. Maedhros and Maglor were speaking to Elrond in an unfamiliar, flowing tongue which Frodo recognised as Quenya, though he could only pick out a few words, but as the hobbits watched, they each clasped his hand, then drew back to stand with their brothers. Elladan, Elrohir, and Legolas bowed gravely to Elrond and to the assorted folk that had gathered to see them all off. Aragorn clasped Elrond’s arm, then stepped back to stand beside Boromir. Elrond lifted up his voice so that all present could hear, saying, _"The Ringbearer is setting out upon the Quest of Mount Doom. Upon him, alone of all these folk, is any bond laid: not to cast the Ring aside, nor to yield it to the folk of the Enemy, nor to let any folk save those of his Company handle it, and then only in the most grievous need._ With those who go with him go now all our hopes for this war. _May the light shine upon your swords,_ and may you ride to victory!"

Boromir took up the great horn that hung at his belt, and blew a blast that made the valley walls re-echo. 

_"Slow should you be to wind that horn once again, Boromir," said Elrond, "until you stand once more on the borders of your own land, and dire need is on you." _

_"Maybe," said Boromir. "But always I have let my horn cry at setting forth, and though thereafter we may walk in the shadows, I will not go forth as a thief in the night._"

Celegorm clasped Boromir’s shoulder briefly. "We may go as thieves in the night now," Curufin said, "but have no fear. You will have cause to wind your horn in battle soon enough."

With those words, led by Elladan and Elrohir, who knew the lands best, and Celegorm, the best hunter in the company, they set out, quietly, without fanfare save for the blast of Boromir’s horn that still seemed to echo in Frodo’s ears like the war-horns of a strange people blowing in the mountains far away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Italicised things are, as usual, quotes or paraphrases from FOTR books or movies.
> 
> For those of you who have noticed that the language used by the characters and narrator varies from formal and archaic to informal and semi-modern: I am assuming that the characters speak Westron most of the time because it is now the lingua franca, with the exception of the Fëanorions speaking among themselves, where they would use Quenya. (Their Sindarin is a few thousand years out of date at this point, and oddly accented to boot.) Since Westron has both a "high" or formal register and a "low" or informal register, I am doing my best to represent this in my use of English without reverting to the archaic "thee" and "thou," which would produce a bit of a linguistic can of worms because thou/thee was originally, the informal pronoun, but sounds formal to modern ears. This is why Elrond, for instance, sounds so much less formal with Maedhros and Maglor than he does with the Ambarussar: he’s using the informal register with his foster-fathers, and they are following suit, while at the Council and with those he knows less well, he’s using the formal register. Hobbit-Westron is canonically like English in that it has entirely dropped the formal register except as a rare endearment, so Merry and Pippin use the informal register with Caranthir and he responds in kind.


	5. Namarië Christopher Tolkien

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I just heard that Christopher Tolkien died today, so this is a tribute to him, not a chapter.

Without him there would be no Silmarillion and no Histories of Middle-Earth, and much of the beauty and the glory of his father's works would be lost to us, perhaps forever.

I hope that his ship is even now finding haven on the white shores of Valinor, beyond the walls of the world.

Rest eternal grant him, O Lord, and may light perpetual shine upon him.

Namarië, Christopher Tolkien.


	6. The Pass of Caradhras

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The travellers bound to Lorien, Mirkwood and Erebor find trouble sooner than they expect it, but they also find some friendships on the road.

Only a little way outside Rivendell, the company parted ways for the first time. Those bound for Lorien, Mirkwood and Erebor were to depart for the Pass of Caradhras, while those bound for Rohan, Gondor and Isengard were to make their way to the Gap of Rohan. Elladan and Elrohir both embraced Aragorn while Amrod and Amras received worried brotherly admonitions and their share of embraces from Maglor. Legolas bowed courteously to the company at large, and Gimli and Glóin nodded curtly. Caranthir struck Maedhros lightly on his good shoulder, swung a brotherly punch at Celegorm (which the hunter dodged, a brief smile illuminating his otherwise grim face), and told Curufin, "Stay out of trouble this time, or the Halls of Mandos will be no protection for you!" He then, to everyone’s surprise, knelt down to shake hands with the hobbits and said to Merry and Pippin, "Remember what I told you." They nodded solemnly, and with that the farewells were complete. Gandalf and Boromir now took the lead of the Rohan party, while Elladan and Elrohir led the way towards Eregion and the Pass of Caradhras.

Now without the need to account for less swift companions, the light-footed elves and long-enduring dwarves set what would have been a blistering pace for the hobbits and a difficult one even for Boromir. Only Aragorn, ranger of the wild and descendent, though at long remove, of the half-elven, could perhaps have kept pace with them as they strode tirelessly through the windblown wilderness. Dwarves need less sleep than men; elves need none at all, as mortals think of it, for long stretches of time. They seldom halted for longer than an hour or two to prepare a scanty meal and catch a little rest behind some boulder or tree that provided some shelter from the driving wind and chill rain.

Once they entered the land of Hollin, once called Eregion, the weather was kinder and brighter, though the travellers took little notice of it. Indeed, Amrod and Amras, seldom grim and often merry, became oddly silent once they crossed the borders, and their usual cheerful jokes around the small campfire were less frequent. Legolas was tactfully uninquisitive, even when Amrod spoke quite sharply to Gimli as they were kindling a particularly damp and uncooperative fire. Elladan and Elrohir seemed to understand without asking. Glóin, however, a little nettled on behalf of his son, asked Caranthir, "What ails your brothers? They are becoming positively prickly, and for no cause that I can see!"

Caranthir replied in a voice that was more gruff than usual, "This place — Hollin — was called Eregion once. My nephew built his city here. You can see what’s left of it."

"What happened to him?"

"Look around you. What do you think happened? He’s dead. Thauron was behind it, naturally, as he is nearly everything of that sort, only he likes to make things personal with our family." Then, with uncharacteristic venom in his voice and a blazing fury in his eyes, he added, "And he will perish for it, twisting in the agony he so gladly dished out to others! May his end be slow and painful, slow as the long torments of Angband which my brother suffered! Damn him to the Void!" As he spoke, he looked and sounded frighteningly like his brother Curufin, but he swiftly subsided back into his own laconic humour again, and added, "Better not mention it to the twins. They were closer to Celebrimbor than to some of us; thought he was their little brother sometimes, I would swear."

Glóin reached over to clap Caranthir’s knee in rough sympathy, but he remained silent, and there was no more talk around the fire that night.

The next day, they left the temperate, kindly lands of Hollin and began to climb in earnest. Hitherto, they had made their way through rolling foothills, up and down again, though always more up than down. Now they were climbing, and no mistake, as Sam might have said. Elladan and Elrohir no longer led: instead, Gimli and Glóin picked out the paths where the stone was surest and the going swiftest. Soon they were nearing the snow on the great mountain’s shoulders. Amrod halted them then, saying, "If we are to sleep this night, let it be now. This mountain has no friendly look, and I have no wish to sleep in a bed of snow." 

Amras added, with something approaching his ordinary tone of voice, "We had more than enough of that visiting Maedhros in Himring. Not for nothing was it called the Ever-cold!"

"Why our brother saw fit to take his fortress in the coldest, most miserable, grey, rainy, icy, snow-covered, treeless, stony, unforgiving piece of country in all Beleriand, short of Angband itself, I will never know," Amrod grumbled, evidently also beginning to regain his usual equilibrium.

"Doubtless because it kept your grousing away, brother!"

Undeterred by Amrod’s silent fuming, Elladan and Elrohir concurred with his suggestion to make camp, the more eagerly once Glóin confirmed that Caradhras itself was not over-friendly to travellers. As the sun was going down, Amrod disappeared briefly from the camp, and when he returned, he put two large handfuls of snow down Amras’ back. Gimli, who had overheard his father’s conversation with Caranthir, winked at the elf and said, "Seems the boys are back to normal!"

This remark, unfortunately, was overheard by Amras. Faced by an external foe and deeply indignant at being called "boys" by "a mere whelp, not even two hundred years old!", the twins at once reconciled their internal quarrel and promised dire retribution to Gimli in the form of snowballs, evidently determined to make up for their former moroseness by an excess of wild spirits. Elladan and Elrohir, usually comparatively solemn and reserved, joined in the spirit of the moment (and diverted any immediate plans for icy revenge) with reminiscences of their antics as elflings in Rivendell, where snow was, while not rare, certainly an opportunity for fun and pranks. Amrod and Amras were eager to compare the memories of their days in Valinor.

Elladan was in the midst of enthusiastically recounting an elaborate plot featuring roofs, snow forts, Glorfindel, and improvised snowball catapults, the point of which had rather become lost in the details, when Elrohir, who had been standing watch, half in the circle of the fading firelight, suddenly interrupted him. "Hush, brother! There is a strange noise in the air!"

Elladan was instantly silent. Legolas threw earth on the fire and smothered it. 

Gimli kept his voice low as he asked, "What is it?"

"There is too much noise in the wind," Elladan said softly.

"Not noise. There are wings on it: many creatures with wings, and nearby," Elrohir said.

Amrod and Amras had frozen as soon as Elrohir had called out, peering in the direction that Elrohir had been looking. Now they spoke in the curious way they had sometimes where each finished the other’s thought. "Dark birds," Amrod said. 

"Many of them," Amras added. 

"Could be crows," 

"or ravens."

"Either way, they should not be flying by night," Amrod finished.

"Crebain of Dunland," Elrohir said softly. "Saruman’s spies, I should think, or they would not fly so far from their homeland any more than they would fly by night."

"He cannot touch us here," Elladan replied scornfully.

"No, his arm is not so long as that. Let us hope that it never shall be. Nor can he set on foot any pursuit that might hope to catch us. It is what he may tell others that I fear."

"What others should he tell? Mithrandir tells us that he serves none but himself, and even if he did serve Sauron, it is a far journey from Isengard to Mordor."

"We do not know that he still serves himself. Sooner or later, if left alone, he or Sauron would have the dominion: Sauron, I deem, for he was mightier in native strength and his stronghold and army are the elder and greater."

"It matters not whom he serves if by him news of us comes to our Enemy’s old servant," Amras replied. 

"It will matter even less if he can call the mountain’s wrath upon us," Caranthir added. "Can he?"

"Call the mountain down upon us?" Glóin asked. "Caradhras answers to nobody but himself."

"I have heard of such things done long ago," Elladan added, "but I deemed that the power of it had gone out of the world."

"If Maglor taught your father aught of his craft, then doubtless he could," Amrod said. "And we could, perhaps, if we so chose. But from so far away, Caranthir, I do not think that Curunir could do it, though I will not linger over long on Caradhras to see! Let us go as soon as the crebain have gone."

No-one argued with Amrod. They stayed still and silent in the dark, crouched against boulders and under scrub-trees, listening as the birds grew closer until even Gimli and Glóin could hear them, and then as many, many wings beat overhead in the darkness, and as the sound of the birds faded away into the distance. Elladan and Elrohir were the first to move, and despite the dark, all followed them. It did not appear that they had been seen by the birds, but there was no way to be sure, and none of them wished to wait in the same place for a second visit. The elves were night-sighted, and the dwarves sure-footed on the mountain stone. By morning, when they halted again to rest, they were far up the mountain, well up among the snow-banks and boulders of the mountain’s flank.

In the bright morning light, all could see that clouds gathered around Caradhras’ peak. Gimli and Glóin shook their heads and looked grim. "Caradhras is not in a fair mood," Gimli said. "We had best go as swiftly as we may. We ought not to spend the night on this mountain."

Glóin shook his head again, but said nothing. The party continued climbing, and the clouds seemed to grow larger and darker as they ascended. Once they reached the mouth of the pass, it was snowing. Caranthir, who was in the lead, quickened his pace as soon as he saw, but soon the snow was falling thickly and beginning to obscure the path.

By the time they had reached what seemed to be, by its decreasing slope, the top of the pass, the snow was over waist-high on the Dwarves, and the party was moving far more slowly. Gimli and Glóin did not complain, but it was clear that they found the going difficult. All hoped that as they descended, the snow would grow lighter and their pace swifter once more: they had been toiling uphill all morning, and all were mindful of Gimli’s warning, and still more of Glóin’s silence. So it was that they heard soon what less wary travellers might have heard later: a deep, ominous rumbling coming from above. Caranthir, who had keen elven ears and more knowledge of mountains than was usual with anyone not a Dwarf, looked up abruptly and said, softly but clearly, "Avalanche! Just above us!"

Then he unceremoniously lifted Glóin off his feet and raced forward at a breakneck pace, careless of all but getting clear of the tons of falling snow and stone. Glóin did not protest. The Ambarussar followed Caranthir’s lead with Gimli. Elladan and Elrohir leapt forward: but Legolas, accustomed to forests and not to mountains, looked upward for just a moment. Elladan saw that there was no-one save his brother beside him, looked back, and saw a great wave of snow descending upon the running Legolas. There was a sheer drop to their right: he sprang at Legolas and drove him back to the left against the cliff, under a little overhang, just as the avalanche, with a deafening crash, descended upon the path.

Elrohir in his turn looked beside him and saw that neither his brother nor Legolas was there. He had just had time to spring clear of the edge of the avalanche as it fell. Now, standing on the edge of the new snowbank, he halted the racing Fëanorions with a shout. They set down their dwarven passengers with brief apologies and turned back to stand beside Elrohir. 

Amrod was the first to reach him, and panted out, "What happened?"

"I do not know! My brother ran back, to get Legolas, I think, and they must have been buried!"

Caranthir and Amras had come up beside him, and Caranthir muttered something about "forest princelings without a lick of sense."

Amras smiled, and, turning to Elrohir, said, "It seems that you will learn something of song-craft after all! Caranthir, you are in a foul enough humour yourself, but I daresay you can put this mountain into a better mood. Brother," he added, turning to Amrod, "while we dig, let us sing the weather into a better temper to match the mountain!"

Gimli and Glóin had tramped up by this time, and had begun to clear the snow away from the pathway with the broad sides of their axes, as the best tools they had. Amrod and Amras, using only their hands, joined in, but began to sing also, in clear tenor voices. They sang the sun rising in the morning, the twinkle of sunlight on streams, and the bone-deep warmth of summer afternoons in the woods of Rivendell. And as they worked and sang, the clouds began to thin and dissipate and even the snow of the avalanche seemed to soften. Meanwhile, in a music that was very different from their song yet not dissonant, Caranthir, in his deep baritone, began a music of mountains. His song was stranger and harder to understand than the twins’, but Elladan and Elrohir caught a little of it. He sang of the honour given to safe roads by travellers, and of the friendship that the Dwarves shared with their mountains — and as he sang, the sense of present menace that had grown in all their minds without their noticing abated, thought it did not disappear. At that moment, Legolas and Elladan, who had been digging themselves towards the sound of singing, fell suddenly out of their snow-tunnel back onto the open path. Elrohir caught his brother in a half-embrace while Caranthir steadied Legolas less tenderly. Then he ceased singing and said to the company, "Come. Caradhras suffers our presence, but he does not delight in it. Let us begone ere he decides to trouble us more!"

"He’s even worse than usual," Glóin exclaimed. "Caradhras does not love travellers, but he does not ordinarily so persecute the Dwarves!"

"Perhaps the world remembers something of the Sons of Fëanor," Caranthir said grimly. "It has little reason to love us."

"Or perhaps you were right, brother, and Saruman’s arm is longer than we thought," Amras replied. 

"Well, don’t let’s stay and talk about it here by the avalanche!" Gimli exclaimed. "That slope’s not stable yet, and I’ve no fancy to be hoisted about by elves more often than need be!"

There were no more snowstorms or avalanches to trouble their descent, and soon they were making their way down the Dimril Stair beside a swift-falling stream.

Once in the Dimril Dale, the party separated once more. Amras, Caranthir, Gimli, Glóin and Legolas turned to the north. They would not enter Lorien, but make straight for Mirkwood and the Lonely Mountain. Elladan, Elrohir and Amrod turned towards the Golden Wood. The farewells were brief and courteous, even between the separated twins. All were conscious of the need for haste. The idea that Saruman might have been able to turn Caradhras against them was present to all their minds. Elrohir took the lead now in the party that made for Lorien, as he was a better scout than his brother. Amrod, taking the rear, looked uneasy.

The avalanche had delayed them, and even as swiftly as they went, it was drawing toward evening when they reached the borders of Lorien and passed under the golden trees. Amrod smiled and murmured something to himself in Quenya, but he said nothing in response to Elladan’s inquisitive glance. By the borders of a clear stream they halted, and Elrohir turned to Amrod. "This is the stream of Nimrodel," he said in what sounded to Amrod like a curious offshoot of Sindarin as spoken in Doriath. "She was an elf-maiden who dwelt in these woods once, long ago to us, though after your time. She was lost on the road to the Sea, and came never to the haven at Belfalas where her lover Amroth waited for her. His ship was driven to sea by a storm, and when he discovered it he leaped overboard: but no one knows their fate, for news does not come to us from over the Sea, and neither of them ever was seen in Middle-Earth again."

"More to the point," Elladan added in the same language, "this is where the folk of Lorien post guards to halt travellers who come without leave. There are some in the trees on the other side of the stream, most likely." He said this last sentence in a clear voice that carried well across the stream, and a ripple of laughter from the trees was his reply.

Elrohir addressed the voices in the trees, saying, "The sons of Elrond are come to their grandmother’s realm with an urgent message from Rivendell. Great things are afoot. Do you permit us to cross?"

"Welcome, my lords," the voice replied, and an elf clad in grey sprang down from the trees. Even Amrod’s keen eyes could not easily distinguish his cloak from the grey boles of the trees, and if he had stood still an inattentive observer would have seen nothing. "I am Haldir of Lorien. I will guide you past the River Silverlode, where others will take you to Caras Galadhon. But your guest — what of him?" When Elladan and Elrohir were silent, uncertain what to say, he turned to Amrod and asked, "What account do you give of yourself?"

Amrod had cast his hood over his head when Elladan mentioned guards, and he stood now with his face in the shadows. "The Lord Elrond sent me," he said softly. "I do not choose to speak more of myself at the present. The Lady Galadriel will know me."

Haldir looked doubtful, but Elrohir stepped decisively into the stream, and Amrod followed. Haldir did not stop them, though he said, "Our trust in Elrond is very great, or I would not permit even to him such an unannounced guest. I shall answer to the Lord and Lady for this, if you mean harm to our land."

"I do not."

Haldir seemed only a little appeased, and did not offer them the hospitality of his _talan_, but led them straight on through the forest, after speaking swiftly to his companions to bid them hold their station until his return. The sun was setting, and its red light seemed to set fire amid the golden _mellyrn_ leaves, as the four Elves strode swift and silent through the forest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Linguistic note: I assume that the strange language of the Elves of Lorien is a dialect of Sindarin, since Galadriel's Quenya song is singled out as different from their daily speech, but it clearly isn't the same thing as the Sindarin that Frodo learned or that Boromir knew in Gondor. Legolas, grandson of Oropher of Doriath, understands it quite well. I have therefore assumed that, whether because of Celeborn and Galadriel's influence (Celeborn is a native of Doriath and Galadriel spent a good deal of time there) or because many of their people are Doriathrin refugees, the Galadhrim speak an archaic, heavily Doriathrin-influenced Sindarin which is mostly incomprehensible to those only familiar with the more "modern" Sindarin as spread to Noldorin refugees and later to Men. It is thus much more similar to the Sindarin that the Sons of Fëanor would have spoken, which is why Amrod understands it so well and is able to speak it, more or less.


	7. The Gap of Rohan: Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the road to Rohan and Gondor, there is much to do and talk about. The travellers learn about each other, Sam cooks, Celegorm hunts, and Boromir is very much disconcerted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late update again this week, sorry. This chapter ran away from me and ended up way too long to finish in time for the deadline, so it's coming in two parts. Here's part one.

As the Caradhras party made their way through Hollin, those whose roads led through Rohan, led by Aragorn and Gandalf, the four hobbits, Boromir, Maedhros, Maglor, and Curufin were wending their way towards the other great pass of the Misty Mountains, the Gap of Rohan. It was a curious sight to see so many folk of such various races together: the towering Elves of the First Age, taller even than Aragorn, Gandalf, looking like an old beggar leaning on his staff, and yet somehow keeping pace with the swiftest, Aragorn, weathered as old stone, Boromir, grand but travel-worn, with the bearing of a soldier, and the four hobbits, two of whom sang snatches of nonsense verse as they walked and pestered their taller companions with questions, two of whom walked in silence.

Though Aragorn and Gandalf set a pace well below what they might have done alone, still it was hard going for the hobbits. They were on their feet all day, stopping only once the sun had set and on the road again as soon as it had risen. Though the country was not as rugged as that by the base of Caradhras, the wind was cold and it rained more than anyone liked, even the elves. Frodo, too, walked as though his pack was heavier than it really was, and occasionally he winced as though at a sudden pain. Sam watched him with worried eyes. 

Merry and Pippin, in contrast, were bored as well as tired, and in search of something to entertain them. The company had found an unusually good campsite that day, and so they had stopped almost an hour before sunset. The hobbits were much relieved by this, but Pippin was beginning to discover that he had nothing to do when he was not walking. When he asked Gandalf to tell him about the Sons of Fëanor, Gandalf said nothing, but stared at him under his eyebrows until Pippin was quelled and went away. Aragorn was standing with Maedhros looking away from camp and gesturing to the hills ahead, and Pippin thought that they must be doing or saying something important. Celegorm had disappeared to go hunting almost the moment they had halted, and anyway he was always stern and unapproachable since they had left Rivendell. Pippin considered approaching Curufin, but Curufin was staring down his nose at the fire that he and Sam were trying to light in much the same way that he stared down his nose at the hobbits (though, as Sam pointed out to Pippin later, he couldn’t very well help looking down at everyone, being so tall). Merry had flung himself on the ground as soon as they halted, saying that he was going to sleep while he could, and was now almost invisible under a cloak that Pippin thought belonged to Curufin. That left Maglor.

Maglor was sitting on a boulder and staring into the distance. Pippin hoped that he was not doing anything important, but he did not seem to be. Pippin climbed up out of the little dell where they were making camp, stood by the rock, and cleared his throat. "Excuse me? Erm…Maglor?"

Maglor seemed to come back to himself from a long way away, and turned inquiringly to Pippin. "Yes?"

"Well…" Now that he was talking to one of the tall, strange elves, Pippin felt a bit awkward again. Caranthir had been so gruff that it was easy to talk to him, somehow. One got the sense that he cared little for manners and conventions and would not mind if you made a blunder. Besides, Merry had been there then. Maglor, however, was elegant and polite, and Pippin was unsure where to start. He tried again. "Merry’s asleep, and everybody else is doing something, and I haven’t anything to do, so I…" He trailed off again.

Maglor, however, smiled at him reassuringly. "You found yourself suddenly understanding that a long journey is rarely exciting, and wanted a song or a tale to while away the time?"

Pippin had not been entirely sure what he had in mind when he started talking, but this was as good an idea as any, and he had heard Maglor sing in the Hall of Fire. "If it isn’t too much trouble?"

Maglor laughed. "Peregrin, is your uncle ever troubled by a request for one of his tales?"

"Well, no, but he’s my Uncle Bilbo, and he’s…well…"

"Old? I am far older than your uncle, and my brothers will be only too glad to tell you that even when I was young I never turned down a chance to tell a tale or sing a song. What would you hear?"

"I don’t know…it’s really Cousin Frodo who knows about the old stories. I suppose you must think I’m very ignorant, being one yourself after a fashion."

"Not in the least. The memories of mortals are short: in a way I am surprised that so many tales of our deeds have survived! Let me see. Shall I tell you of the battle in which _my_ uncle Fingolfin, and my cousin Fingon, and my brothers and I drove Thauron’s master back into his stronghold, and penned him there for five hundred years of the Sun?"

This sounded very exciting indeed, and Pippin said so.

Maglor had smiled and sat back on his boulder, evidently preparatory to telling his story, when something caught his eye — and apparently Aragorn and Maedhros’ eyes also, for they suddenly looked up at the sky as well. Aragorn whirled around with a cry, "Crebain of Dunland! Spies of Saruman! Take cover!"

At once, Curufin stopped trying to light the fire and began scattering the wood. Sam seized his pans and dove for shelter under the nearest bush. All the company scrambled to hide first their baggage, then themselves. Merry woke and tangled himself in the large cloak. Aragorn swept down on him, freed him from the entangling fabric, and shooed him into the shade of some bushes. Pippin wriggled halfway underneath a stone in the shade of a small scrub tree. They had gotten under cover only just in time: the rushing of wings was heard overhead, and as the crebain passed on to the west, _a single harsh croak was heard_. Only once the flock of birds was well away did the company emerge from their hiding places. "I do not like this," Aragorn said grimly to Gandalf. "Saruman knows that something is afoot, I deem. Who knows what else these birds have seen?"

"I do not like it either, but there is nothing to be done," Gandalf replied. "All the passes south are doubtless watched. That does not change what we must do. At any rate, we can go no further tonight."

"And it doesn’t change that we're wanting supper, either," Sam added, gathering up the scattered firewood with Curufin’s assistance and filling up his emptied saucepan with water from the nearby stream. Curufin snorted his amusement, and, after striking sparks into the dry moss they had gathered with flint and tinder, began a quick, crackling, staccato song that soon had the wood in a merry blaze. Sam whistled, impressed. "Now that’s a trick worth learning," he said. "But if I were to sing that music, I daresay it’d do naught but make a fair tune. How do you do it?"

Curufin put his head on one side, as though thinking. "It is not easy to explain," he finally said. "I have worked with fire and metal all my life, and so they are ready to answer my will. Perhaps I could teach you a little of the art, but it is not a question of singing the same song every time. You must hear the music of the fire and sing that music. If I sang the song I used just now to a forge-fire, it would do nothing or perhaps go out! Tell me, do you hear any of the fire’s music now? An echo, perhaps, of the song I sang?"

Sam listened hard. "I only hear the fire crackling," he said in the end.

"Then you hear a little. The crackling of the fire is a part of its music. Now listen as I sing, and see if you can hear how it is that I take up the fire’s music." 

He began, softly, to sing what sounded like more of the same song from before — it crescendoed as the fire found new fuel, and leaped upwards as the flames leaped to the heavens, and always it followed the curious rhythm of the crackling, popping wood. Sam listened until he felt as though he had been transformed entirely into an ear, and very, very slowly he began to hear a little snatches of the song in the fire, as before he had heard the fire in the song. "Yes," he said excitedly, "I hear it a little now!"

"Then you do well," Curufin said, making an end of his music. "Do so again, night after night, until you can sing the fire’s music, and then you will, perhaps, be able to do as I do. You do not have my power, but you and your kind are far closer to the earth than other Atani; some Men would not have heard so much as you have if they listened all their lives. I will show you again tomorrow; perhaps in a few weeks you will begin to be able to sing yourself.

"And now the fire is burning down," he said, "and it is past time to put on the pot." He suited the action to the word, setting one of Sam’s saucepans full of water on the stones which they had set in the fireplace as a support. "Pass me the biscuit, will you?"

Sam handed him the dry biscuit, and said, "Oh, your brother’s coming back!" 

Celegorm was indeed returning from his hunt, which had evidently been successful: he was carrying several small game birds, already plucked and ready for cooking.

Sam and Curufin were past masters of the art of making a good meal from limited rations, and with Celegorm’s contributions, they produced what was practically a feast. As they cooked, Maglor told Celegorm of what had happened with the crebain. Celegorm said nothing in reply, but looked even grimmer than usual.

That evening, Maglor, true to his promise to Pippin, told the tale of the Dagor Aglareb after supper, with occasional interjections from Curufin and one part told by Maedhros, who insisted that Maglor was making too light of his own deeds.

Most of the company, save Maedhros and Maglor, who were on watch, fell asleep soon after the tale was ended. Frodo, however, did not. His shoulder was aching worse than usual, and he felt as though the cold of the wind had got into his bones despite the warmth of the fire. Alone, he would doubtless have wrapped himself tighter in his blankets and been silent, but Sam, ever observant, noticed his master’s distress. "You can have my blanket, Mr. Frodo," he said softly. "I’m not sleepy anyways. I think I’ll go sit with the watch for a while."

"Oh no you don’t, Sam," Frodo answered. "I saw you yawning. I’m all right, just a bit chilled."

"Beg pardon, but you’re not. I saw you shivering, even by the fire. Isn’t there something I can do?"

"No, Sam. It’s not much worse than usual. I’m a little cold, that’s all."

"Didn't you say that Master Elrond could take the cold out of your shoulder when he was looking after you?"

"Well, yes, he could, but he’s not here. Really, Sam, it isn’t that bad. I’ll get to sleep in a little."

But Sam had already gotten up from his bedroll and was making his way over to the watchers, who were sitting on the lip of the dell, saying nothing. "Excuse me, my lords," he said a little haltingly, "but Mr. Frodo can’t sleep, and Master Elrond told me that you taught him about healing, and I was wondering if there was something you might do." 

Maglor immediately rose to his feet. "I will do what I can for him, though I fear that it will be no more than see to it that he can sleep this night."

"That’d be enough. He hasn’t been sleeping right since we left Rivendell."

Maglor knelt down by Frodo, who made no movement, as though he wished to appear asleep. Maglor took no notice, but began to sing, very softly. Sam could not hear what he sang, but he caught snatches that sounded a little like Old Man Willow’s song in the Old Forest, only more peaceful, without the underlying malice that had given him such unease. Sam heard his master’s breathing slow and even out in sleep after a few minutes.

"Such a small one, yet he bears such a burden," Maglor said softly once Frodo was truly asleep.

"He bears it because he must, and he does so bravely," Maedhros answered.

"Why hasn’t he healed yet?" Sam asked. "The wound’s closed, and Master Elrond and you great folk have all treated him, but it still pains him like this."

Maglor sighed. "The wound of his _hröa_ — his body — is healed, as much as it can be, but such weapons of the Enemy also touch the _fëa_ — the spirit — and that is beyond any power outside Valinor to fully heal. As long as his _fëa_ remembers the wound, pain will continue to trouble him." As Maglor spoke, Maedhros’ left hand had closed over the stump of his right, as though he, too, were troubled by some memory of pain. 

It seemed that Sam and Frodo were not the only sleepless ones in the camp that night, for Boromir spoke up from the shadows, "So wounded, need he bear that burden at all? Surely someone stronger could bear it for him, even if only until he was healed."

Maedhros shook his head. "Boromir, your words show that you do not truly understand this thing. What do you think that it is?"

Boromir seemed a little taken aback by the question. "A ring of power, of course."

"But what is that?"

"A weapon, that grants to the wearer the strength to rule over men and draw together armies for defence against his foes!"

Sam was indignant at this, but could find no words to express his indignation. It was Maglor who answered, "No, Boromir. That is not what a ring of power is. It is both more simple and more complex than that. A ring of power is simply an object which has been imbued with some virtue by the maker, who must have considerable native strength in order to do so. It may have many purposes. The three rings which my nephew forged for the Elves, as Elrond may have told you, are not weapons of war in any way. They were created to slow the fading of the Elves and the decay of time in Middle-Earth — perhaps even to heal those things in some measure. They were made by Celebrimbor alone, and so no evil lies on them, but even so they would be perilous to mortals. A ring wielded by a creature less powerful than the ring itself is may overtake the wielder’s mind, even if it was not made with malice."

"Thauron had a hand in the making of all the other rings," Maedhros added. "They are weapons indeed, but weapons intended to subdue the mind and heart in service to him. They will answer to no other; he made them so."

"And he ensured it even more so by making the ring which Frodo bears," Maglor replied. "It was intended to lay bare the minds and master the wills of all others who wielded rings of power; only when it was lost to Thauron did the wielders of the three Elven-rings dare to wear and use them, and even then they did so in secret. He was a Maia in the beginning, a mighty spirit in the service of Aulë, and he poured much of his strength into this master ring. He who would command that power must have already great might of his own — but such a ring would overtake the mind even of the strongest of our race."

"So you see that it is a weapon," Maedhros said, "but a more subtle one than you believed. In Thauron’s hands it grants him dominion over all the other rings, and doubtless he never intended to lose it: but, once lost, it serves him still, twisting good intent into evil, destroying minds. They told you at the Council of the creature Gollum, did they not?"

"They spoke of him somewhat," Boromir said uncomfortably.

"He was a halfling, once, Mithrandir believes," Maedhros said, "and the halflings are most like Men. No man save the line of Elros can live five hundred years, and in these latter days even they seldom reach such a span, but Gollum did so."

"T’ain’t natural for a hobbit, that’s for sure!" Sam put in. 

"That was the ring’s power at work," Maedhros continued, "and it worked at the destruction of his mind as well. He is now a wretched creature of lust, unable even to die and be free of his miserable life, for to do so would be to give up his great desire. That is what this ring does to minds — all minds other than that of its maker. It would do the same to mine, if I were fool enough to lay hand to it. It would do the same to yours."

"You speak as though you are sure! Yet none of your race has even held this ring. How do you know what it might do?"

It was Maglor who replied this time, "In the first place, because all of my brothers save myself have spoken to our nephew Celebrimbor, maker of the Three, the Seven, and the Nine, slain by the hand of Thauron after the making of the One, in the Halls of Mandos."

Sam looked confused. Boromir paled. "You have spoken to the dead?"

"We have been dead," Maedhros replied. "Only Maglor has lived through all the long years since the First Age in this Middle-Earth." The moon came out from behind a cloud as he spoke, and caught and kindled the light of the Two Trees that shone in his eyes and Maglor’s, and made their faces white and colourless with its own cold light. Boromir was struck by a terrible thrill that went through him like a blade, as he understood, suddenly, that here he was faced by creatures utterly _other_ than himself: old as mountains, stronger than stone, dead yet alive: wholly strange, wholly terrifying. He stammered out, "But how…what…"

"The how is simple," Maedhros said calmly, and the very calm of his deep voice, as though he spoke of an everyday matter that was no cause for amaze, struck Boromir with yet deeper fear. "The fëar in the Halls may speak to each other as they will, so long as their will is without malice."

"But how then do you walk with the living?"

It was Maglor who answered, in a gentle voice, "Have no fear, Boromir. We are not dead, but living, as you. The fëar of the Eldar are bound to the circles of the world. Even in death we do not leave it, but only leave our bodies and take our abode in the Halls of Mandos. Men, too, go there, but they leave the Halls to go beyond the world, and what becomes of them we do not know. Elves may, in time, be permitted by the Valar to return to their bodies. My brothers were so permitted, that they and I might use the powers which once we turned to our ruin and the ruin of the land we loved in the service of Middle-Earth against this new threat. We are neither wraiths nor corpses. Come. Take my hand, and feel that I live."

He reached out his right hand to Boromir, who grasped it cautiously, and was a little surprised to find it solid and warm as his own. Maedhros leaned forward and put his own hand on Boromir’s shoulder — and his hand, too, was warm and living — and said, "Forgive me. I did not mean to frighten you. I dwelt long in Mandos, and even some of the other Eldar do not think these things matters of course, as I do. There was great unrest in Tirion upon Túna when the Sons of Fëanor came walking back out of the tales of the First Age! But be comforted. I live, and live to aid you and all your people."

"Well of course you’re alive, and all right and proper I’m sure it is too!" Sam rejoined. "Master Elrond would never have let you come with us if you weren’t supposed to be here."

Maglor smiled. "Indeed he would not. Truly, Boromir, we have come to aid you, not to frighten or rob you. And do not let our strange sources of information distract you from what we say: my brothers have spoken to the one who made all the great rings save Thauron’s. We know of what we speak."

"And," Maedhros added, "we know something of the desire for a thing of power that drives the mind to madness and despair. Do not let it take hold in you! I have seen your eyes follow Frodo, though you yourself perhaps do not know it. I yielded to that temptation once. It is a road of dust and ashes, and it ends in fire. Do not be foolish, as I was."

Boromir, though no longer so frightened as before, still seemed a little shaken when he said, "Then I can hardly gainsay you. Samwise, forgive me any wrong I have done or thought to your master. I give you my word that it was unwittingly done."

"You haven’t done anything that I can see, Master Boromir, and least said soonest mended, they say! You seem to be in a fair way now, and with you here, masters," here he turned to Maedhros and Maglor, "I daresay we have naught to fear. Now I’m going to sleep, for Master Frodo seems to be asleep properly this time, thanks to Lord Maglor and I could use some sleep myself. Good night, masters!"

"A good night to you as well, Samwise — and call me neither master nor lord, for I am neither. Maglor is my name, and you have the right to use it."

"Good night," Maedhros echoed, and with that the two elves returned to their watch, and the mortals turned to sleep. 

Boromir’s dreams were not easy, that night, for he dreamt that the Ring rose out of the East, red like the sun in deadly eclipse, and came out of the sky to him, and he put out his hand to take it unthinkingly, yet feared that it would burn him even as he did so. Then Frodo, in his dream, came, and stood between him and the Ring, and he was grateful, and would have thanked the hobbit, but then he was where the Ring had been, and Frodo lay slain at his feet, and the golden circle sat heavily on the fourth finger of his left hand. At this, Boromir awoke in a cold sweat and found that he lay still under the stars in the wild country between Rivendell and Rohan. That night, or rather that morning, for he woke in the dark hour before dawn, he vowed silently never to touch the Ring, for his dream, though disjointed, hung in his mind as had the dream that sent him to Rivendell, and he liked it not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope Boromir didn't come off as OOC in this chapter. My rationale for his extreme fear of Maedhros & Maglor is his reaction to Lorien and Galadriel, which seems to stem from fear rather than simple prejudice.
> 
> Also, note that this narrative is slightly non-linear: the crebain here are the same ones that are going to fly over the Caradhras party in the previous chapter. I'm really trying to keep contemporary events together, though.


	8. The Gap of Rohan: Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hobbits learn swordplay, and the companies split up for the last time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's Part II - on time this week. Sorry for not publishing this all together. The muse ran away last week - what can I say?

There was little opportunity for conversation over the next few days save while walking, for Aragorn and Gandalf were both uneasy about the crebain. They woke the company before sunrise and walked until nearly sunset. Even Frodo had little trouble sleeping, for all the hobbits were weary now, and they all felt as though they were woken the instant they closed their eyes, though Aragorn, Boromir and the four Sons of Fëanor kept watch at night by turns, leaving the rest of the company to sleep. Even the irrepressible Pippin had little or nothing to say except the occasional whispered complaint to Merry that his feet ached.

It was, therefore, a great relief to all the hobbits when Gandalf halted at midday, saying something to Aragorn about "resting now to go the quicker tomorrow." Tomorrow, they all felt for the moment, could take care of itself if they could only sit down now. In fact, after a hurried cold luncheon — which was rather sparse by hobbit standards, but they were used to that now — Frodo, Sam and Pippin went to sleep. 

Merry, however, did not quite feel like sleeping yet. There was plenty of time, and anyway he had had an idea. All of the hobbits carried short swords, which they had acquired for the most part from the incident in the barrow, but none of them knew the use of them. At least, Frodo might, but Merry certainly did not. He had watched one afternoon in Rivendell as Maedhros sparred against his younger brothers, and had a fair idea of how to proceed, he thought.

Finding a patch of fairly flat ground a little away from camp (but not out of sight), he drew his short blade and examined it closely. It looked to be made of steel set with fiery stones which glinted in the sunlight, though it was too light to be any steel that Merry knew, and when he tested the edge on some grass it proved to be razor-keen despite its long neglect. He stood with his right foot a little behind the left, shut his eyes for a moment, and tried to remember what the sparring Elves had done.

Meanwhile the camp, small as it was, had been set up. There would be no fire until evening, but Celegorm had gone out to gather firewood and hunt, as he usually did on a long halt. Maedhros was beginning to worry for him. His younger brother had seemed cheerful enough on the voyage over, and even in the council at Rivendell, but now that they were on their way he was stern and grim and silent, avoiding company whenever he could. Maedhros had little trouble understanding why, but it was worrisome nevertheless. Gandalf and Aragorn were discussing something about their route for the morrow with Curufin. Maglor was…one of the hobbits was missing. Maedhros swiftly looked over the forms wrapped in their blankets. Sam, Frodo (no surprises there), Pippin. No Merry.

Though Pippin was the most likely to cause minor trouble, in Maedhros’ brief experience with the hobbits, Merry was not far behind. He was sure that Merry had been here recently, and the hobbit would not have gone far. Maedhros swiftly glanced around the camp, and caught a curly head and a gleam of steel in the sunlight. He strode swiftly towards it, just in time to watch Merry come dangerously close to striking his own leg in his enthusiasm. Maedhros caught the hobbit’s sword-arm carefully, kneeling down to look Merry in the face, and said rather sternly, "What are you doing?"

Merry was finding that swordplay was both easier and harder than he had expected. It was easy enough to strike downwards with a blade at one’s imaginary opponent, at least the first time. It was not so easy to avoid tripping over his feet as he tried to recreate some of what he had seen the Sons of Fëanor do, and on top of that his blade was not stopped by the imaginary enemy, and sometimes came uncomfortably close to striking him. Despite these difficulties, he was determined to be able to make a good account of himself should he find himself in battle, and he doggedly kept going, at least until a hand caught his arm and a deep, quiet voice said in a rather disapproving tone, "What are you doing?"

Merry was not as nervous about their elven companions as Pippin, but Maedhros had made no sound as he walked up behind Merry, and Merry nearly dropped his sword in surprise. "I beg your pardon?" was the best he could come up with.

"What," Maedhros repeated, mild amusement creeping into his voice, "are you doing with that?"

"Trying to use it," Merry answered. "If we have them, we ought to know how, or I daresay we’d be worse than useless in a fight."

Maedhros gazed thoughtfully at him. "That is true enough," he said. "But that is no way to use a sword. You all but lamed yourself just now, and you have come dangerously close to adding yourself to the number of the one-handed in this party. That is a keen blade you wield."

"Well," Merry replied, emboldened, "I shouldn’t do that if I had someone to teach me."

"I suppose you would not, at that," Maedhros said. "Very well. For today, I will teach you. In future, I will see to it that you and your companions receive a lesson whenever we halt long enough. Indeed, it was negligent of me not to do so sooner. If you are to carry blades, you should know how to use them. All of you, I deem, will see battle ere this is over."

"Right," Merry said, a little disconcerted. "Where do we start?"

"With your grip," Maedhros said, taking Merry’s sword himself. "You hold your sword like a club. Your wrist is stiff and the blade stands out at an angle from your arm, like this. In this position, you cannot move your sword without moving your whole arm, which means you are slow and your enemy can clearly see your movements before you make them. With orcs, that matters little, but you may find yourself facing evil Men, too, on this journey. Relax your wrist and loosen your fingers a little, like this. You should be able to move the blade from your wrist so that your arm follows, rather than leading with your elbow." He handed the sword back.

"Better?" Merry asked, adjusting his hold on the hilt.

"Better. Now the basic strikes…"

By the end of his lesson, Merry’s arm was burning, but he could, to Maedhros’ satisfaction, perform the four basic strikes and parries. As he sheathed his sword, a thought occurred to him. "Maedhros?"

"Yes?"

"You known how Pippin and I are going to Gondor to distract the Enemy from Frodo. Well, if one decoy is good, mightn’t two be better?"

"Perhaps. Where and who would you say the second decoy should be?"

"Well, the only party that doesn’t have a hobbit now is Maglor’s."

"There will already be two hobbits in Rohan," Maedhros observed in a non-committal voice.

"Exactly!" Merry exclaimed, struck by inspiration. "Would the Enemy think we would send It to Saruman? If anyone in Rohan had It, it would be the one who went with Maglor. Except it might have gone with the stronger party, which is Gandalf and Curufin. That might keep him a little more off balance."

"Well done," Maedhros replied. "Let us put your idea to the rest of the company."

This they did, with the upshot that Merry was to go to Rohan, and Pippin to Gondor. Pippin might have preferred the other way round, as he was more comfortable in Maglor’s company, but Merry thought privately that he would rather send Pippin to Gondor under Maedhros’ protection than leave him in the open fields of Rohan, close to Saruman and danger, and he held his position so firmly that Pippin yielded, in the end.

Another result of the day’s events was that one or more of the hobbits received a lesson in swordsmanship whenever there was time, usually from Maedhros or one of the Men. Aragorn was a good teacher, patient and firm. Boromir was a little less patient, but he allowed roughhousing and wrestling as well as proper swordplay, which made up for it. In fact, Merry and Pippin once managed to knock him down (though Merry was fairly certain that he had allowed them to). 

This state of affairs went on for some time, uninterrupted by further evidence of Saruman’s spies. As they drew nearer to Isengard, they took to stopping by day, under such cover as they could find, and travelling by night, under cover of darkness.

All too soon, however, it was time for another parting. At the Fords of Isen, Gandalf, Curufin, Frodo and Sam were to turn north towards Isengard. Celegorm would cross the river with his other brothers, Aragorn, Boromir, Merry and Pippin, but would then turn fairly due east towards the borders of Mordor, carrying a letter from Boromir to the captain of the Rangers of Osgiliath which told of his errand (though not of the Ring) and granted him safe passage by authority of the Captain-General. The remainder of the company would make for the city of Edoras, turning southeast. 

They had camped for the day by the Fords of Isen, listening to the river’s rushing voice and delaying their farewells, for now they were very near to peril and it seemed to the hobbits, that, as Bilbo had once thought upon finding himself about to confront a dragon, they had gone and put their feet in it, and now would have to pull them out and pay for it. Up till now, it had been a pleasant enough journey, laying aside the weather, which had been foul on occasion. They had learned swordplay, true, but though they had spoken of battle and danger, it had still had a quality of unreality to it. They were protected by some of the greatest folk in Middle-Earth; what on earth could happen to them? Now, however, the grim facts of the Quest lay bare in their full desperation: an alliance scraped together in bare months, by a mere seven men, was to distract the Dark Lord himself from two hobbits and a handful of companions carrying his greatest weapon straight to the heart of his land! To consider it seemed foolishness; to attempt it, despair. But they had set their hands to the task: even had they wished it, there was no turning back. 

Similar thoughts, it seemed, agitated their companions. Aragorn had withdrawn into himself, and stood looking in the direction in which Minas Tirith lay, murmuring some staves of poetry to himself. The four hobbits were seated around the embers of their supper-fire, saying nothing. Gandalf was arguing with Curufin, softly, in Quenya. Maedhros was gazing towards Mordor with a black look on his face. Maglor was sitting with the hobbits around the fire, singing under his breath in Sindarin. Frodo caught a few words about courage and peril, but not enough to tell him what the song might be. He did not ask. Celegorm was pacing to and fro like a caged beast, alternately staring at the ground as though it might tell him something and scowling in the direction of Mordor.

Celegorm was the first to leave. As the sun began to sink he stopped pacing and drew towards the others, saying only, "It is time." 

He clasped Boromir’s arm briefly, and nodded to Aragorn and the hobbits. Maedhros put one hand briefly on his shoulder, saying, "Be careful, little brother."

"Not so little!" Celegorm retorted. "I shall be careful, yet now perhaps there is but a knife’s edge between care and recklessness. We have found the boar before we have planted our spear — our caution must be courage and our courage caution. Do you plant the spear, and I will report on the boar."

Maedhros nodded in acknowledgement and said nothing more. Maglor rose and pulled his brother into a brief embrace, but said nothing. Then Celegorm lifted his pack and glided away into the shadows. To the hobbits’ eyes, he became invisible almost as soon as he left the camp.

As though Celegorm’s departure had been a signal, the remaining members of the company, drawn out of their reveries, began to break camp. The hobbits embraced, wishing each other good luck. Aragorn and Boromir clasped each others’ arms and said brief farewells. Curufin nodded to his brothers. Maedhros and Maglor briefly embraced, but said nothing. Gandalf sternly told Merry and Pippin to stay out of trouble, and then it was time. He led Frodo, Sam and Curufin down the river without fording it. The other two parties crossed the river and then took their separate paths: Maglor, Aragorn and Merry to Rohan, and Maedhros, Boromir and Pippin to Gondor. Storm-clouds rolled out of the East as they marched, obscuring the last of the sunset and the first of the stars, and a bitter rain began to fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My headcanon is that Maedhros spent so much time chasing his dumb little brothers *cough*Celegorm*cough* around that he has an almost supernatural ability to sense when someone is about to cause themselves dire bodily harm through stupidity.
> 
> Also, I know that our heroes have been having things pretty much all their way so far, which wasn't true in LOTR. My excuses are that (1) they set out a couple months sooner in this version, giving Saruman and Sauron less time to prepare, and (2) it won't last. (Evil Author Laugh)


	9. Caras Galadhon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elladan, Elrohir and Amrod are welcomed, for a given value of the word, to Lothlorien.
> 
> Once the dust has settled, the planning begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late again, oh well. Maybe I should just say these will be posted Wednesday or Thursday.

Morning had come and was drawing towards evening when Elladan, Elrohir and Amrod, guided by Haldir, reached the city of Caras Galadhon. Amrod had consented to be blindfolded after the crossing of the Silverlode, upon condition that it was Elrohir, not Haldir, who covered his eyes, and this had been done.

They passed the gates of the city unchallenged, for Elladan and Elrohir were known there and they were guided by an Elf of Lorien. Also, it seemed to Amrod from what he could hear that the Lady of Lorien had left some instruction concerning them. At any rate, he was permitted to remove his blindfold. He kept his hood over his face, for though doing so made him an object of curiosity, he preferred curiosity to fury. He did not know how many of the folk of Lorien were survivors of Doriath — he guessed that there were few — but knew, from the language as well as hearsay in the First Age, that Artanis had taken in some at least. 

They were taken into the care of the guards, and Haldir left them, for his duties called him back to the borders. He courteously bade Elladan and Elrohir farewell, and bowed uncertainly to the ever-silent Amrod, who returned the gesture. Then he melted away into the shadows of the evening and disappeared. One of the guards spoke carefully and slowly, in a more common dialect of Sindarin with a faint Doriath accent, saying, "Sons of Elrond, you are welcome here as you have ever been, and I am instructed to conduct you to the Lord and Lady of the City at once, for it seems that you come on an urgent errand from your father. But your companion we do not know, and were it not for your presence he would not have been permitted over the Silverlode at all, much less with his face hidden. Therefore I am commanded to say to you, O Stranger, that you must walk the city of the Galadhrim openly, with your face visible to all, not hooded and cloaked like one who wishes to go unseen. If you do not consent to this, you may go no further."

"I understand your speech," Amrod replied in the tongue that he had heard Elladan and Elrohir use. The guard seemed surprised and not altogether pleased. He continued, "And though the sight of my face may not be pleasant to you, I shall walk openly through your city upon one condition: that I receive safe-conduct to speak to the Lord and Lady of my errand, which is too urgent to be endangered by my face."

"It is indeed the desire of the Lady that you be brought before her at once, and none of the Galadhrim shall interfere with her orders."

"Nevertheless, your word of safe-conduct I must have, or your Lady’s, or I wait here at the gate hooded until my companions return for me."

The guard seemed disconcerted, and withdrew into the guardhouse to consult with his superior (Amrod presumed) in a low voice. Those outside could not catch the words, but the end of the matter was that their guide returned and said, "My safe-conduct you have, and by extension the city’s, for the word of the Lord and Lady shall not be gainsaid. Now take off your hood and declare your name, that you may be declared before the Lord and Lady aright."

"You said nothing of my name before," Amrod replied. "Yet you shall have it, for the time of secrecy is past in this matter." He rose to his full height, taller than any who stood near, and threw back his hood. As the last rays of the sun gleamed in his red hair and kindled the light of the Trees in his eyes to fire, he said in a clear voice, "Telufinwë Ambarussa I was called in Valinor before the rising of the sun, Amrod Fëanorion in Middle-Earth, Deormod to our allies of the Men of the House of Hador. I am returned to Middle-Earth now by the will of the Valar, for the aid of the Free Peoples in the coming war. I knew your Lady Artanis in the Years of the Trees, and I would speak to her now of great matters. Hinder me not!"

The guard stepped backwards in amaze and no little fear, and even Elladan and Elrohir turned to each other in surprise. Never before had Amrod or Amras chosen to appear in the guise of a great lord of the Noldor to any of the company with whom they travelled. Always he and his brother had brought laughter and lightness to a grim journey, and walked with their power veiled. Now, however, none who stood near would lightly have gainsaid him, and their guide said in a voice in which awe and anger were mingled, "Rightly did you ask for my word of safe-conduct ere you gave your name, lord, for little love do we of the Galadhrim have for the Ódhellim, and less for the Sons of Fëanor. Yet my word is given and I do not take it back. To the Lady Galadriel I will take you, but have a care that you bear yourself more humbly with her, for power will not serve you there as it has here."

"Well do I know it," Amrod replied. "And long years have I and my brothers repented in Mandos for our deeds of evil. As for how I shall bear myself with my cousin" — and here a little of his accustomed lightness returned to his voice — "I shall see to that, for if she is old and strong, so am I, and more lies between us than the evils of Beleriand."

Their guide turned away in silence, and led them up the hill upon which Caras Galadhon was built. Amrod followed, taking the lead for the first time, and Elladan and Elrohir strode in his wake. His voice had carried when he declared his name and heritage, and they saw many of the folk of the Galadhrim looking upon them from the ground and the trees with unfriendly eyes, but none hindered their progress. At the crown of the hill was a great _mallorn_ tree, into whose boughs they ascended by a stair rather than a ladder. 

The climb to the top was long, and there were white _talans_ along the way where weary guests might rest, but their guide did not halt, and neither did those who followed him. When they reached the place where the _mallorn’s_ mighty trunk divided into the many branches of its crown, they climbed out upon a great _talan,_ whereon might have stood a great hall of Men. The interlaced branches of the _mallorn_ served as roof, and beneath one great bough stood two thrones, whereon sat the Lord and Lady of the Galadhrim.

Now their guide stepped forward, bowed to the Lord and Lady, and announced, "Elladan and Elrohir, my Lord and Lady, and with them…"

He never finished his introduction, for Galadriel had risen swiftly to her feet, eyes flashing perilous light, and cried, "Amrod Fëanorion, how come you here and what is your purpose?"

Amrod smiled, and retorted mildly, "Is not it reason enough that I come to visit my cousin Artanis after an absence of many ages?"

Galadriel was not so easily turned aside from her purpose, though first she said, "Elladan and Elrohir, my grandsons, you are welcome here as ever, though you come so strangely accompanied." Then she turned to Amrod, saying in a stern voice, "But you, cousin, when last I saw you the blood of my husband’s kin was running from your hands like water! When my people and I knew that you were gone to Mandos, we were all grateful — my people because you would not come down upon them in the night and slay them, myself for that reason also, but also because you, whom once I loved as a kinsman, would fall no further into evil. Now you return to walk the world, and come to my city armed and in the company of my grandsons, claiming to bear an embassy from my son-in-law! Were I as I was when last you knew me, perhaps you should be cast in irons! But now I have grown wiser, perhaps, and more patient certainly. Explain yourself, and swiftly."

To Galadriel’s first speech, Amrod replied, "I have never denied my sins, cousin, as you well know. I have repented them in Mandos for many long ages of grief, as have my brothers. Nevertheless, for all in which I and mine have wronged you and yours, and it is a long and painful history, I am truly sorry. Indeed, I would not have come here were it not that my return to life, and my brothers’, was for a purpose."

"Your brothers?" Celeborn asked, speaking for the first time. "Surely not all of you are returned to the world?"

"All," Amrod replied in a colder tone than he had yet used. "The Valar released us from Mandos. 'Middle-Earth is in peril,' they told us, the Lord Mandos and Lady Nienna, 'and they have need of help from folk of great strength, as you are. Once you went to Middle-Earth and brought doom and grief in your wake. If you return now, to bring aid and healing, the Valar have agreed that your crimes will be held absolved and you will be permitted to walk once more among the living. If you refuse, no penalty shall be dealt out to you — you shall only remain in the Halls.' 

"None other of the folk of the First Age would have come to your aid, for they have no desire to walk once more in the land where they knew so much grief, when all for which they fought is long broken and drowned beneath the waves. Indeed, we might not have, were it not for my brother Maedhros, who doubtless is one of those you thought remained prisoner in the Halls. It was he who asked — no, begged us — for another chance to help to heal the world we had so marred. And so it is that we return now in the hour of your peril to aid you. Maedhros goes to Gondor with the Steward’s son, to ready war upon Thauron and his allies. Maglor rides to Rohan to gather the riders, and Celegorm to Mordor to watch our foe. Caranthir even now journeys to Erebor to warn and aid the Khazad, and Curufin with Mithrandir goes to find the traitor Curunir and give him justice. Amras with Legolas Thranduilion seeks out the forest kingdom of Greenwood to call up their army. _The board is set, and already the pieces are moving._ Lorien must be prepared. I ask your sufferance, not for myself, but for the plans which must be made. I come to ask your aid in a great alliance, for only together can the Free Peoples stand against Thauron."

"Your last alliance," Celeborn observed, "was an ill-fated one."

"An ill fate which pursues us no longer, Lord of Doriath." Amrod’s voice was respectful, but there was a note of warning in it as well, and he did not explain himself further.

Elrohir spoke into the uncomfortable silence which was settling over the party. "Grandmother," he said, "whatever his deeds in the past — and I am not ignorant of them — what Lord Amrod says of the alliance is true. Before he came with his brothers, I would have said that there was no hope for us in open war. Now, perhaps, there is hope there. But beyond that hope lies another, of which I would speak without other ears present."

Galadriel turned to the guard, saying, "Tirniaith, leave us." The elf bowed and descended the ladder.

Elrohir resumed, "You know that the Enemy’s Ring has been found, I know, for my father has spoken to you of it. It came to Rivendell not a month since in the hands of a Halfling. He bears it still, to carry it to the fires of Mount Doom. If it perishes, the Enemy falls. But one Halfling cannot cross the borders of Mordor alone. Unless the Enemy’s attention were elsewhere, he would be caught most swiftly."

A light of understanding came into Galadriel’s face. "And how better to distract our Enemy than to give him what he expects of war, and perhaps a little more than he expects?"

"And will he not," Elladan put in, "assume that the Ring is at the centre of power? It should go to Minas Tirith, he will think. Let him think so! Every moment he fights our alliance, Frodo finds his way nearer to Mordor."

"I see," Galadriel replied. "Son of Fëanor, it seems that you come in truth to do our people some good. I do not love you, but you will receive no ill-treatment at my hands or those of my people, and for my part you shall have Lorien’s aid in this alliance."

"For my part also," Celeborn added. "The memory of the wrongs of the Sons of Fëanor is a bitter one, but it is now a very old one also. Let ancient memory be laid to rest in the face of our great Enemy. I warn you, however, do you do nothing to awaken it or to betray our trust. Speak now of what plans have been made."

"So be it," Amrod said. "If the memory of our deeds slumbers, I shall not wake it. Our plans are simple. My brother Celegorm, as I said, has gone to scout out the mountain fences of Mordor and seek for a way in which is unwatched by the enemy. For the world of Men: evil is afoot in Rohan, as Mithrandir has told us, set in motion by the traitor Curunir, and not all is well in the house of Theoden the king. Maglor goes to Edoras to find how it is with the king, and to gather the Riders of Rohan for battle, and one of the halflings goes with him, though he does not have the Ring. Curufin goes with Mithrandir, and with the Ringbearer and his companion, to Isengard, to strike swiftly at Curunir ere he does more injury to Rohan. The last of the halflings accompanies Maedhros to Gondor. Thus, we hope, the Enemy shall be left in confusion as to where the Ring truly is.

"We hope to send forth armies from Rivendell, Lothlorien, Greenwood the Great, and Erebor to Dol Guldor, and to do so swiftly. If we thus strike at the two strongholds outside Mordor which may threaten us, we hope to destroy them before the Enemy can use them to strike at us. Meanwhile Maedhros, Maglor and Curufin will try to hold the line in Gondor and Rohan, where the Enemy’s chief forces will, most likely, be sent. In the midst of all this Celegorm will guide the Ringbearer to the borders of Mordor, that the Ring may be destroyed while the Enemy’s eye is elsewhere."

"A good plan," Galadriel replied. "But you have sent the Ringbearer into great peril."

"There would be peril wherever he went," Elladan answered. "And the Enemy will not expect us to send his Ring too close to Saruman."

"And he is well protected," Elrohir added.

"In any case, the best help we can offer him is to keep the Enemy’s eyes fixed on us," Elrohir said.

"You both speak truly, grandsons," Celeborn replied. "Now it is agreed that Lorien shall join you in this alliance, and the time will come to speak of plans and tactics of our own. Now, however, you have travelled far and fast from Rivendell, and must be weary. Our people will provide such things as you need. Tomorrow we shall hold counsel."

At a word from Celeborn, Tirniaith returned and led them, still silently, to a place where food and beds had been prepared for them, though his manner was less hostile. That night they slept deeply, but they were summoned early in the morning to speak once more to Celeborn and Galadriel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ódhellim is a Sindarin name for the Noldor, meaning "Exiled," and therefore probably not coined by someone friendly to them. Our friend Tirniaith is feeling threatened and angry and very confused, so he went for the most insulting thing he could say while still being somewhat respectful and polite.
> 
> Also, Galadriel is only around a century older than the twins. As Elves come of age near 50, she would have been a pretty young adult when he was born (even if that 50 is in Years of the Sun rather than of the Trees). She’s actually closer to them in age than Maedhros is.
> 
> The idea of being glad someone is dead because it means they can't fall any further is not mine and came from a fic involving Fëanorians, but I don't know whose fic or where it is. (Edit: thanks to the very helpful moiety, I now know that that idea is from arrogantemu's fic featuring reembodied Maedhros and Thingol having a conversation.)
> 
> Amrod addresses Celeborn as a Lord of Doriath because that is how he knew of him, and also to make a bit of a dig at him about the fact that Doriath didn't show up to the Nirnaeth.
> 
> Italicised things are either Elvish or quotes.
> 
> My vision of Lorien is a mix of the book and movie versions, so any inconsistencies are a result of that.
> 
> Virtual cookies to anyone who figures out what Tirniaith's name means - I had fun with the etymology on that one.


	10. Of Bears and Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas, Gimli, Glóin, Caranthir and Amras, on their way to Mirkwood and Erebor, halt briefly in the land of the Beornings, and pick up some new friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm baaaaack! Sorry about missing a week; I got hit with a cold and also with a lot of work. Also I fell into the Star Wars fandom rather abruptly. I'm not abandoning this work, though, and hope to get back on track with Wednesday or Thursday updates, although it may end up being every other Wednesday instead of every week.

As the Sons of Elrond, with Amrod, were welcomed to Lorien, Caranthir, Gimli, Glóin, Legolas and Amras were hasting across the Dimril Dale. They had been forced to go many miles out of their way to the south, as the old pass over the Misty Mountains which Bilbo and the dwarves had followed so many years ago was once more infested by orcs, and partly blocked by falls of rock. Now they hurried to make up for lost time as they turned north once more. They had not, as yet, even covered half the distance that lay between them and their destinations. For the most part their journey was both an uneventful and a silent one. Caranthir and the Dwarves spoke only when they considered it necessary, which was seldom. Legolas and Amras were not unfriendly, but despite his diplomacy at the Council, Legolas was not wholly comfortable with Fëanor’s kin, and Amras politely kept his distance. 

It was almost a week after their crossing of the mountains that they came to the River Gladden, or Ninglor, as Legolas named it. Dusk was falling, and nobody liked the idea of fording an unknown river in the dark, so they made camp rather earlier than usual that night. This meant that they had time for a hot, albeit late, supper, courtesy of the Dwarves’ fire-lighting skills and Legolas and Amras’ bows, which rarely failed to bring down something edible, though game was scarce in winter at the best of times, and scarcer than usual now. As the small fire died down, most of the party settled down for a full night’s sleep, something which was becoming rather a rarity, as both Caranthir and Amras persisted in driving their pace to the limits of what all could bear and on walking as long as there was light. Glóin grumbled occasionally to Caranthir that "Just because we Dwarves need less sleep than humans does not mean that we need _no_ sleep, Master Elf," but such comments never produced more than a slightly longer night’s rest and an even more punishing pace the next day.

As time had gone on, however, and the road behind them grew ever-longer without seeming to bring them nearer to their goal, the others had begun to catch some of the Fëanorions’ driving urgency. They had all, of course, trodden this way before, more or less, on their path to Rivendell, but that had been to ask for answers to questions which, while worrying, had not boded immediate war. Now they were returning as the ambassadors of the greatest alliance since what had, in the Age which followed it, been known as the Last Alliance of Men and Elves. All had thought it so in truth, thought that the ancient strength of the Elder Children of Illûvatar would never rise again, until the Fëanorions had come crashing into the Council in Imladris like a falling star hurled forward from the past and set out a plan to rouse all Middle-Earth to war once more.

All this and more was running through Legolas’ mind as he sat on the watch with Gimli that night, listening to the endless rippling voice of the river that had hidden the One Ring for nearly three thousand years. He had seen something of battle and its aftermath at the Battle of Five Armies, but he was too young to have lived through the great war in which the Second Age drew to a close: that he knew of only through his father’s tales. The Sons of Fëanor were, to him, no more than distant legends of bloodstained glory moving among the mighty, half-mythical figures of the First Age of the World: the Great Enemy, Morgoth the Terrible, his lieutenant Gorthaur the Cruel, Finrod Felagund who challenged Gorthaur to a mighty battle of song, Fingolfin who gave Morgoth seven wounds, and Beren Erchamion who bore the Silmaril: tales which the young Legolas had found alternately terrifying and fascinating. Now all the old tales had woken to life again and he was riding beside one of them to war such as he had hoped never to see. Gimli broke in upon the silence: "To think that all these centuries the Enemy’s greatest weapon was sitting at the bottom of a river, and it had to be us who were around when someone finally fished the cursed thing out."

"When we reach my father’s court, that may be the least of our worries. I fear that he will not take kindly to…recent happenings."

"Meaning our new friends. Only an Elf would worry about what those fellows did Mahal knows how many centuries ago instead of the war that we’re about to have on our hands."

"And only a Dwarf would assume that my worry for our new friends was unconnected to the war. Their plan is good, but the memories of my people are long, and I fear that the persons who come with the plan will wreck all."

"My people’s memories are not short, but even for us the seven Sons of Fire have fallen into the realm of legend. Indeed, only three of them are remembered by name among any save our loremasters. Why, then, are they so remembered among your people?"

"They are legends among us, as well, but we could not forget them through all the ages of the world. As for why they are remembered — could your kind forget one of the Seven Fathers of the Dwarves, O son of Glóin?"

"Of course they could not!"

"What of the name of one who slew one of the Seven Fathers?"

"That, too, we would remember down the centuries, together with the vengeance we would have taken upon him."

"To the Elves, Fëanor could well be said to be both, and his sons are not less renowned than he. They led our people to the height both of their evil and, some would say, their glory, but the evil overshadowed the glory even when they stood at their height, and ere the end they had fallen low indeed. My grandfather remembered their time, and passed on his knowledge to my father. He will not take kindly to them, or to the alliance they seek."

"And well do I know it," said a soft voice beside them. Gimli was a little startled, though Legolas did not seem so, as Amras stepped softly out of the shadows. "Your watch is ended," he added. "As for the problems of tomorrow, let us take heed to them tomorrow. If we do not reach the Forest Kingdom before the orcs, we will have naught to fear from the long memories of our people."

"Well spoken," Gimli said, turning to his bedroll. Legolas, however, lingered a moment. "Forgive me," he finally said, "if my words were ill-judged."

"They were not," Amras replied. "Indeed there are many who would have given us a less kind judgement."

"My father among them, and many of our people with him."

"That, my diplomatic friend, is where you come in."

"And if I cannot persuade him?"

"Then my brothers will make do with those allies they have, and I will find other ways to be of use."

Having nothing more to say to that, Legolas retired for the night, and left Amras and Caranthir to watch the rest of the night.

The next morning they forded the Gladden at the nearest shallow place they could find, and then continued their road north and a little east. They travelled warily, as they had ever since the crebain overtook them, but saw no signs of spies or evil. Indeed, after the crossing of the river, to Legolas’ mind, they saw too little. Amras, when he spoke of it, shared his concern. The Eagles of the Misty Mountains could sometimes be seen, hovering far above them, but few other birds and even fewer beasts. Had they not carried their supplies with them, the hunters would have been hard put to it to find rations. The endless marches in silence through an empty land took their toll on all, and it was with more than a little gratitude that, one morning, they saw, rising out of a flat plain, the unmistakeable flat-topped rock that the Beornings called the Carrock. Not only was it a landmark which told them that they were near to the road into Mirkwood, it also offered the possibility of a night’s rest under a roof with the Beornings and a few proper meals, which even the hardiest of their company would be glad of.

Encouraging as the sighting of the Carrock was, they were still at least a half-day’s march away. With their goal in sight, however, all were eager to pick up the pace, and they forded the chill waters of the Anduin a little before midday, under the shadow of the great stone. When they emerged from the water, Glóin took the lead, as the only member of the party who had been to Beorn’s house before. As they followed the path that Glóin had followed long ago, following a tall wizard and a small and nervous hobbit, however, he saw that all had not remained unchanged. What awaited them was less a house with outbuildings than a fair-sized settlement, surrounded by a rough wooden palisade. Men were working in the fields beside tall, strong horses who bore no reins and seemed to know of themselves where to go and what to do. Some of the men were very tall, black-haired and alike in face and bearing, and evidently of one kindred. They were outnumbered, however, by shorter folk of more varied appearance, who seemed to work under their direction.

As the travel-worn strangers approached the palisades, one or two of the loose horses who seemed to roam at will cantered through the gate and disappeared among the houses. At the gate, a guard, one of the tall men, halted the travellers and asked in a voice that was gruff but not unkind, "What business does a company of Elves and Dwarves have in the land of the Beornings?"

"We seek the road back to our home of Erebor," Glóin replied, "and our companions seek the road to the Forest Kingdom. Once my companions and I found hospitality and aid with Beorn of old, and we hope for a night’s respite from the wild. Also we bear news, which it might be well if you and your folk heard."

"We do not love travellers," the man replied, "but you, it seems, are no ordinary travellers, if you tell the truth. Come with me."

With that, he called over his shoulder to one of the men in the field to take up his place by the gate, and led them into the streets of what was, now that they could see it clearly, a prosperous village. Women and children paused in their work and play to look at the strangers, who were evidently not what they were accustomed to seeing. The ground sloped upwards as they walked, and upon the crest of a ridge they saw a goodly house, or perhaps a small hall, evidently older than the rest of the houses, for its rough-hewn wooden beams were grey with age, though its thatched roof gleamed like gold in the midday sun. A tall man was splitting wood in the courtyard with an axe nearly the size of Glóin. He was evidently akin to the guard, but older, for though his arms were strong, his hair and beard were grey. As they entered the courtyard, he looked up, glanced over the visitors, and then, ignoring them, asked the guard, "Well, Ferian, what is this?"

Ferian bowed his head respectfully, and said, "A party of Elves and Dwarves travelling together, Father, claiming to seek both Mirkwood and Erebor, and saying that they stayed with Grandfather once, long ago. They say there is news that we should hear."

"Hmph," said the tall man, and then, before anyone could bow or introduce themselves, continued, "Knew my father, did you?"

"I did," Glóin replied. "He was a good friend, once he believed that my companions and I were not liars. I am Glóin at your service, and this is my son Gimli."

"So you would be one of the thirteen dwarves who showed up out of the blue with a wizard and a…what was it…a hole-bit? Some sort of beardless dwarf, it was."

"A hobbit," Glóin said.

"Hobbit, yes, that was it! Well, then. Looking for Mirkwood and the Lonely Mountain, are you. You’ve come the right way for that, for the old Forest Road is even worse going now than in my father’s day. But what is this news you speak of?"

"Something which is better not discussed in the open," Amras said before Glóin could answer.

"Hmph," said the tall man again. "And who might you be?"

"Amras, son of Fëanor, at your service," he said, copying Glóin’s form of address and bow. "This is my brother Caranthir, and this is Legolas, Prince of the Woodland Realm."

"Never heard of them, or you, but I suppose you’d best come in. And my name’s Grimbeorn. Off with you, Ferian, unless you want to hear this secret news."

With that, Grimbeorn set down the axe against the rather formidable woodpile, and led the way inside. Ferian turned on his heel and strode off down the road, back to his post at the gate, presumably. The company followed Grimbeorn into the hall, which was lit only by a hole for smoke to escape through and a few windows, and then out the other end onto a large porch overlooking a garden, where there were chairs and benches. Grimbeorn sat down in one of the larger chairs, and waved peremptorily to the rest. Once the company had sorted themselves out, he said, "Right then. What do I need to know that’s so secret you can’t say it outside?"

Amras and Caranthir alternated in their explanations of the war which was brewing and their hopes for an alliance, and hinted at the secret hope of destroying Sauron himself, though they did not mention the Ring. Amras finished, "We hope that Dol Guldor will be destroyed before Thauron’s troops can reach your people, but it may not be so. If we fail, then his armies will not, I deem, leave you in peace. We deemed it only right that you and your folk should have a chance to prepare for the war that may come to you."

"I see," Grimbeorn said, and was silent, looking out over the garden, which was now in the full afternoon sun. Even in winter, it was not without its beauties. It was a warmer afternoon than most, and a few bees were buzzing around some of the hardier plants. "Well," he finally added, "when are we leaving?"

"I beg your pardon?" Legolas asked.

"If there’s a war brewing against the orcs, then my folk and I won’t be left out of it. You say you need all the help you can find for this alliance, well, I’ll help you. My father wasn’t fond of dwarves, but he trusted Gandalf, and Gandalf sent you. You’re not lying, or I’m no judge of truth. Besides, not much besides an emergency would have a bunch of Elves and Dwarves travelling together without murder done."

Legolas and the Dwarves were equally nonplussed, and even Amras looked rather surprised. Caranthir, on the other hand, looked pleased, and said, "We have come a long way, and hoped for a day or two of rest. Then we meant to leave again. We’ll not turn down aid that’s freely offered, though. How long do you need to make plans?"

Amras turned to Caranthir, and said in Quenya, "Brother, what are you doing?"

"We need all the help we can get, brother! Men like this are worth more than they appear in battle, and I have a suspicion that we may meet trouble on the road. Trouble will come to them whether they come with us or not. They might as well come looking for it as be caught by it."

"I do not like it. How can they defend themselves from the orcs if their warriors come with us?"

"This is a sensible man. Why don’t you ask him for his plan?"

Grimbeorn was scowling at the two Elves, evidently less than pleased that they were speaking a language he could not understand. Before he could protest, however, Caranthir said, "My brother worries that your people may be left unguarded if your warriors come with us."

Grimbeorn stopped scowling. "My people can look after themselves. If they must fly, they’ll know, and we planned out plenty of places to go long ago. Don’t worry, you don’t live under the shadow of Mirkwood for long without learning a few things. I don’t mean to take every fighting man from the place, anyway. I’ll send out word for volunteers tomorrow. If you can wait a day or two, I’ll have a fair company to march with you."

"In that case," Legolas said, "I, for one, would welcome your aid. I am sure we can wait a little longer without dire evil befalling our errand."

Amras bowed his head in acquiescence. "Well then," Grimbeorn said, suddenly jovial, "that’s settled! Tonight you shall enjoy some proper food, for you look as though you all need it. Tomorrow will be for planning, and the day after for preparations, and then we shall set out."

Grimbeorn was as good as his word. That evening, his family hosted the travellers, and they learned that his wife, Hild, was a pleasant woman and wholly in favour of her husband’s determination to ride out to battle. Ferian was his eldest son, but he also had a daughter, Hlæfdige, and a younger son, Scield, who were eager to hear all that the travellers would tell of their journey and the news of the wider world, for though there were many rumours abroad there was little certain knowledge. The honey-cakes of the Beornings proved as good as Bilbo’s reports had claimed, and the company found themselves both warmer and better fed than they had been in weeks. They slept well that night, but woke early, for Grimbeorn had announced his intention over the dinner table to call a council of his people the next morning.

Swift as the travellers were to eat and ready themselves, they found Grimbeorn, Hild, and Ferian, together with more men whom they had not previously met, there before them. Once more, Amras and Caranthir explained the plan of battle and the danger from the Enemy, though they still said nothing of the Ring. Grimbeorn’s people, it seemed, were much of a mind with him, and the only real matter of discussion was who was to ride to war with the strangers and who was to remain behind. Ferian, much to his displeasure, as Grimbeorn’s eldest son, was left behind to rule the people in his stead. In the end, around fifty warriors were chosen to accompany them, all men who had children to carry on their name (Caranthir would have insisted on this if Grimbeorn had not done it himself). Departure was set for the next morning as soon as all the farewells had been said. The Beornings were a swift people to act once they had made up their minds. 

There was a great farewell feast that night, and tales were told and ale flowed, and Glóin related the adventure of the dragon, not leaving out either Beorn or Bilbo’s parts. All present listened gladly, for most had not heard the tale in full. Caranthir wondered if Grimbeorn and his sons could turn into bears, but was, for once, tactful enough not to ask. For all the merriment the night before, the sun had not yet burned away the river-mist when the Elves and Dwarves found themselves marching out the gate with Grimbeorn at their side, leading a short column of stern Men, armed with leather armour, light shields, axes, and bows. 

Gimli, walking beside Legolas, said softly, "If all our meetings go so well, perhaps we have a chance at this after all! These Men are the sort that I should like to see in a fight!"

Legolas replied only, "I hope that we shall meet with no worse fortune."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As Legolas has no book-canon age indicators whatsoever as far as I can find, I am going with his movie-canon birthdate of TA 87, which would mean that he entirely missed the whole Sauron thing first time around and that this is his first time in a war that lasts longer than one battle or is of a larger scale than skirmishes in Mirkwood.
> 
> Once more, beware of slightly non-linear narrative (and heads up that it is probably going to get worse). I can either stay timeline-consistent or give each group their proper rotation in the chapter schedule, and the second one won out. I don’t think that this is going to make it impossible to track what’s happening when, but if it does, let me know and I’ll try to edit for clarity.


	11. The Hospitality of Isengard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the Vale of the Wizard, one wizard, one elf, and two hobbits find some things they were expecting, and some things they were not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I might be actually early this week...gasp...yup, I am! We'll see if it lasts. Now the excitement begins...
> 
> Warning for blood, injury, and semi-graphic medical procedures.

Some time earlier, while the Mirkwood and Erebor parties were still travelling in the wasteland between the mountains and the land of the Beornings, Gandalf, Curufin, Frodo and Sam had found themselves in Nan Curunir, the Valley of the Wizard. The voice of the river Isen tumbling over rocks was the only sound other than their own voices: bird and beast had fled the land. As they neared the fortress of Isengard, they saw that it must once have been _a green and pleasant place._ In some measure, it was so still, but not wholly. The axe had touched ancient groves, and fire had left great burned swathes among the green grasses. All the party kept a sharp lookout, both for ents and for other, less friendly visitors. 

Curufin was not entirely pleased with their situation. As the land grew more barren and more silent, mile after mile, he seemed to lose his patience entirely. Finally he strode up from his place as rearguard to speak to Gandalf. "Mithrandir, to bring Halflings to such a place at all is foolishness. To bring _these_ Halflings further is suicide. There is nowhere for us to hide, but many places that may conceal our enemies. Saruman and his spies are nowhere to be heard or seen, and I fear such silence more than any open foe, for I know too well what follows it. We should turn back, send the halflings down the river to Gondor if you will not go yourself, and tell them to find us aid, or, if you wish it, deal with this place ourselves once they are gone. So accomplished a student of Thauron as you say Curunir has become no doubt has more than one unpleasant surprise awaiting any unexpected visitors."

"We cannot send the Hobbits on alone, Curufin, and we cannot leave Saruman un-dealt with on our flank, you know this! There is nothing for us to do save obey your brother’s orders. You and I can buy them enough time to escape safely if there is no other choice."

"You will send them on alone with foes on their heels, but not with friendly eyes to watch their trail? I know well what Maedhros was doing, sending us here, and I said nothing of it, for I would not disagree with my brother in open council, but that does not mean I am pleased with it! And Curunir may see through the ruse."

"I like it little better, but I will not send this thing to Gondor, and even in Rohan it might do harm, for Saruman’s will has more sway there, I deem, even than the king’s."

"And if Curunir gets his hands on it?"

"He will not."

"You are very certain for one who has lived through so many years and so much of war."

"I say he will not because he must not! And you and I will not let him."

"I have heard that before. The next week I had lost half my forces — half, Mithrandir! and looked out on a field so covered in the slain that you could hardly see the earth."

Gandalf sighed. Sam and Frodo, who had been listening in silence, exchanged horrified glances. They had known little of the Sons of Fëanor except as a name from Bilbo’s most distant legends, sometimes as glorious warriors, more often as figures out of a child’s nightmare, until the seven Elves appeared at the Council of Elrond. Though they had attempted, multiple times, to learn more of the history that had led to such a vivid and varied legend, there had been little opportunity. They had left Rivendell before they had thought of a tactful way to ask Elrond about the people he seemed both so shocked and so relieved to see, and of course inquiries on the road had been entirely futile, even when there was a chance to make them without being horridly rude. They knew about the Dagor Aglareb from Maglor, and they knew that the First Age had come crashing down in ruins, but little more. This was the first they had heard of the wreck and bloody ruin that was the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, Dagor Nirnaeth Arnoediad, where all the hopes of the Elves of the First Age had fallen in ruin, for it was not a tale that any told willingly.

"Curufin, this is not the First Age. We do not face Morgoth, and, perhaps most importantly, none of us has called down the wrath of the Valar upon our heads. If you have objections, this is, if you will pardon my opinion, a rather unfortunate time to be voicing them! We will be best served by keeping our heads down until we know what we are dealing with, and as I would prefer to not find that out the hard way, I must ask you to keep your voice down."

Curufin looked equal parts chastened and mutinous, as he moved back to his original place behind the hobbits, and Gandalf resumed his cautious pace along the side of the road that had led them all the way from the Fords of Isen. Nevertheless, Frodo thought that Curufin’s concern had made an impact on him, for he had moved further from the road, and now took cover when he had it, slipping through the brush remarkably silently for one with such an appearance of age, and often halted behind a stump or an increasingly rare standing tree, doing nothing except listen for some minutes before he beckoned the party forward. Curufin, if his expression was any indication, approved of this increase of caution. As things fell out, it was well for them that Gandalf saw fit to take such precautions, for the arrow which went clear through Gandalf’s grey hat might well have struck somewhere more vital if they had been a little more in the open.

The arrow must have been a signal, for there was a sudden noise of harsh shouting and thudding feet that seemed to come from all directions. "Run!" Gandalf shouted. "Towards the Forest, quick as you can, now!"

He suited the action to the word, though not so swiftly that the hobbits could not keep up. In the rear, Curufin had a sword in his hands, though Sam had not seen how he drew it. They were running as hard as they could without going in a perfectly straight line and making themselves a line of targets for the arrows which periodically came from behind them. Jeering laughter followed them, but at least it, like the arrows, seemed only to come from behind. Unfortunately, that state of affairs did not last long, and Fangorn was only just in sight over the hills — far too far away to offer them shelter. Hard as the hobbits ran, the arrows came more often and were better aimed. One thudded into the earth just behind Curufin, and another came far too close for comfort to Frodo’s feet. Worse, the laughter and thudding of feet no longer came only from the rear.

Then Gandalf halted so suddenly that Frodo thought, for a moment, that an arrow had struck him, until Sam seized his arm and jerked him to a halt before he could blunder straight over the bank and into the icy current of the Isen, which was already deep, though not wide, so near its mountain sources. Curufin hissed something soft and savage in Quenya, though whether at Gandalf, the river, or the general situation, Frodo could not tell. It was probably, he reflected, some combination of the above. Then he returned to Westron, though that did not reduce the venom in his words: "You said nothing of Saruman having an army of _urqui_ that could bear the sunlight!"

"Because I did not know!" Gandalf shot back, drawing Glamdring from where it hung beside him. "Behind us," he said to Frodo and Sam, who were not loath to go, for all that Maedhros had taught them how to handle a blade. "I spent all my time here a prisoner at the top of the tower, and got only one glance by night at the ring as I was escaping, and that was from the back of an eagle. Saruman had been delving caves and felling trees, that much was clear, but more than that I could not see."

"It did not occur to you that there were doubtless folk there to dwell in the caves and fell the trees, I suppose!" The first of their orcish pursuers caught up to them at just that moment, and Curufin puncutated his statement by cleaving the creature’s head cleanly in two.

"Of course it did, and I said so to your brother," Gandalf retorted, driving Glamdring through the chest of a second Orc. "It is hardly my fault that I could not provide him with accurate counts of all the troops quartered in the Ring of Isengard! Or perhaps you think I should have asked Gwaihir to put me down for a little while so that I could politely inquire from Saruman’s captain of the guard how many soldiers he had quartered in each cave?"

Curufin had no time to reply, even had he been able to produce a suitable retort, for the battle had begun in earnest, and there was hardly time to breathe, let alone talk. Despite the best efforts of their taller companions, the hobbits were forced to defend themselves hand to hand. Mercifully, the archers had stopped shooting. Frodo had no time to think about what the reason for that might be. He had no time to think at all. There was only instinct, and the reactions that Maedhros had drilled into him until his body reacted before his mind had even processed what was happening. He found himself ducking and parrying, even as his feet carried him forward and he disengaged his sword to drive it up under the orc’s breastplate, and it fell at his feet. Some irrelevant portion of his mind whispered that he thought orcs were shorter than that, but he could not attend to it. An orc stumbled towards him, and he braced to meet the attack, but Curufin’s curved sword flashed around in a swift arc and the orc went down, struck in the back. Sam sprang up from Frodo’s right, and finished it off. 

For a moment, there was silence, and Frodo dared to hope that they had fought off their attackers. Then, there was a sudden swish-_thud_, and Curufin gasped and stumbled, his sword falling from nerveless fingers, and stared at the heavy black-shafted arrow that had struck him in the shoulder. Blood was already running down his leather jerkin. Sam hurled himself at Frodo, knocking him down and away from any further arrows, but the archers did not seem to be aiming at them. Gandalf seized Curufin’s left arm and dragged him behind a tree stump, followed by two more arrows, which flew over their heads into the river. Curufin, face white, turned towards Frodo and Sam, and said, "Into the river with you now. Go. Mithrandir and I will hold them. Here, Sam — take Boromir’s letter from me and give it to whatever soldier of Gondor you meet. He will help you."

"No," Gandalf exclaimed. "I can hold the orcs, but not if I am watching over an injured companion as well. You must all go. Leave me here."

"I will not leave you to face these creatures alone!"

"You must! You were right — this is no place for hobbits, and they need a guide almost as much as they need a protector. Go with them, Curufin. Go now."

Curufin argued no further, but sprang out from behind the tree stump at the same time as Gandalf strode fearlessly out towards their foes. Curufin seized his sword in his left hand and thrust it fumblingly through his belt, not even trying to sheathe it. "Into the river, go, now!" he said in a harsh voice. 

Frodo did not need to be told twice. Even with a pack on his back, he would take the Isen over the orcs. Sam hesitated a moment. Hobbits and water, in his mind, did not mix well. Curufin did not wait for him to overcome his fear, but precipitated him over the edge of the bank with a solid left-handed shove, just before jumping himself. They were not a moment too soon, for arrows hissed over their heads into the stream. 

Frodo had sensibly pulled himself up under the overhanging bank, holding to the roots which came down to the water. Seeing that Curufin could not support both himself and the flailing Sam, he firmly took hold of Sam’s arm and said, "Calm down, Sam, and don’t thrash, or you’ll pull us both under! Hold on here and catch your breath," he added, guiding Sam’s hand to the roots. 

Curufin, who was tall enough that he could, just barely, keep his head above water without needing a hold, waited until they were settled, then said, "Now, across quickly. I do not know how long Mithrandir can…" 

Whatever else he was about to say was lost to Gandalf’s booming shout of _"Naur an edraith ammen,"_ which was followed by the roar of flame. Curufin spared only a moment for shock and wonder, then waved the hobbits forward across the river. In the centre, the water was too deep even for him, and he was forced to swim as well as he could with only one arm of any use. Nevertheless, he did his best to help Frodo with Sam, who was no longer panicking, but could do little more than float and submit to their guidance. The air that whipped past their faces was as hot as though it had come from a furnace, and ash was falling in the river around them. This was just as well, for by the time they climbed out of the water again, their limbs had gone numb from the chill. 

"Come on," Curufin gasped. "We cannot halt here."

"You’re hurt," Sam had begun to protest, but Curufin cut him off. "There is no time. Orcs do not love water, but that will not prevent them from shooting us, and there may be other things here fouler than orcs, to which the river will not be an impediment. Mithrandir may be able to stop them, or he may not. If he cannot, we must not be here when he falls. Run!"

The hobbits did not wait to be told twice. Curufin only paused to tuck his right hand, which had been swinging freely, into his sword belt to keep it still, before following them. From behind they could still hear the screams and shouts of battle for a while, mingled with roaring flames and words of command. Indeed, for some time, the battle seemed to be growing in intensity. Whenever the hobbits dared to look back, it looked as though some great thunderstorm had concentrated all its rage on the one bank of the Isen, as sheets of lightning sprang down from the clouds and burst asunder with horrible cracks of thunder, and the fierce wind whirled smoke and steam and cloud and dust together until nothing could be seen of the river at all save a thick fog illuminated by the dire light of flame. In the end, however, all fell silent, though a mist of mingled steam and acrid smoke still pursued them.

Afternoon was drawing on by the time Curufin permitted a halt, and Sam thought that he would probably have kept them walking all night if it had not been for his wound. He had made no sound during their long run, but it was clear that his shoulder pained him with every step, and his shirt was nearly soaked with blood.

"Now," he said grimly, "I must teach you something of medicine. This arrow should not come out save at the hands of a healer, but we have no healer and no time. Sam, light a fire and put water on to boil, then look through my pack, find the bandages, and put them in the water. Frodo, find a clean, green branch of some soft wood, about as thick as three fingers together and no less than a foot long. Be careful, both of you. Do not stray too far from me. Come back at once if you hear or see anything that might be more than a rabbit in the brush."

The hobbits immediately set about doing as he had asked. Meanwhile, Curufin, still left-handed, drew a hunting knife from his belt and clumsily set about cutting his shirt and jerkin away from the wound. The arrow had struck just under his collarbone, and gone in far deeper than he would have liked. The head of the arrow was not visible, but by gingerly rotating the shaft a little and feeling that the arrowhead moved freely, he was able to confirm that it had not lodged itself in bone. _That’s one mercy_, he thought grimly.

Sam, much to Curufin’s surprise, after striking sparks into the tinder, began to sing, very tentatively, a song of fire. As the flames licked the gathered fuel and rapidly caught the whole pile, his song become surer, and by the time he ended it, they had both a good bed of coals and a cheerful blaze atop it. "Well done," Curufin said in admiration. "You have listened well indeed, both to me and to the fire!"

Sam ducked his head in embarrassment. "If I had the time to praise you more, I would do so, for you are an apt pupil indeed, but unfortunately I do not." Sam’s eyes widened, and Curufin shook his head, then winced as the motion pulled at his wound. "I do not mean that I am dying, but I do mean that we must work quickly." He had finished cutting his clothing away from the wound as best he could while Sam was working on the fire, and now he presented the knife to Sam, hilt first. "Put the blade in the coals," he said, "and keep it hot. Keep the handle outside the fire."

Sam did as he was told, and just as he finished burying the blade in the coals, Frodo returned with a willow branch about a foot and a half long. 

Curufin directed Frodo to whittle the branch to a blunt point, then split it in two longwise, which he did. Then he explained, "Orc arrows are always barbed to make removing them more difficult. They are often poisoned as well, but this one, fortunately, is not, or I would know by now. Pulling them straight out will make the wound and the bleeding worse. The split branch will cover the barbs of the arrow so that you can pull it out, if you do it carefully. My hope is that we will not need the knife, but if the wound is bleeding too much, you will have to use the heated blade to cauterise the wound and stop the bleeding. I will tell you if that is necessary."

Inasmuch as he could think of anything except the pain and directing the hobbits for the next five minutes, Curufin was impressed by the hobbits’ calm and their ability to follow instructions to the letter in the midst of a situation which must have terrified them. Frodo’s hands did not shake at all as, following Curufin’s terse directions, he carefully probed the wound with the two halves of the willow branch until he reached the arrowhead, embedded the barbs in the willow so that they could not tear the wound open further, then lashed the halves together and drew the arrow neatly out.

Curufin was tempted to sag in relief and not move again for the rest of the day and ensuing night, until he saw how much blood he was losing, and realised that he would bleed out if he did nothing. "Sam," he bit out, "the knife. And get me something to bite down on."

Cauterising a wound was not Curufin’s first, or even his second resort, but he had precious little in his pack in the way of medical supplies beyond a few bandages, and pressure would not be enough to stop the bleeding — at least, not to stop it permanently enough for him to walk anywhere in the next three days without the bleeding starting again. He wished quietly that Celegorm was there. His older brother always carried enough herbs and bandages for nearly any emergency, and had seen enough hunting accidents that very few injuries disturbed him. He would have to make do without Celegorm’s aid, however. 

The hot knife was as painful as Curufin knew it would be, but though he nearly bit through Frodo’s pack strap, he did not make a sound. The hobbits had enough to worry about without him shouting. Looking down as Sam stepped back, very white in the face, he saw that the bleeding had indeed stopped. He spat out the mangled strap and said calmly, "Very well done, Sam. Set the knife down and let it cool. The last thing we need is more wounds to deal with. Now breathe, and let Frodo bandage the wound."

Sam looked rather sick, but did as he was told. Frodo did the best he could with the boiled bandages, and Curufin helped as much as he could, which was less than he would have liked. Still, the end result was manageable. His shoulder felt like it was on fire, and he could not use his right hand, but he could walk, and, given a few minutes, he felt that he could probably carry a pack as well. He would have to.

Sam and Frodo washed the blood off of their hands with what was left of the water in silence. Frodo was the first to break it. "Sam," he asked softly, "are you all right?"

"I think so, Mr. Frodo. I’ve never done anything like that before, and I never hope to again, but it seems to have come off all right. Not that I don’t feel a bit like being sick, but I don’t think now’s the time for that. Are you all right, now?"

"Yes, I think so too. More than a little shaken, but as your Gaffer would say, all’s well as ends well, and at least we haven’t made matters worse."

"I won’t be saying that until we’re out of this mess, Mr. Frodo."

Despite his injuries, Curufin was adamant that they keep moving that night, skirting the foothills of the last of the Misty Mountains, though Frodo and Sam insisted that they set a slow pace for everyone’s sake. Although Fangorn was a little out of the direct road to Gondor, they kept their course for it, since Curufin was not yet certain that they had not been followed, and orcs would not find it either easy or safe to track them into the depths of a forest which still housed Ents. As dawn broke, the hobbits saw with relief that they were nearly on the borders of the forest. It was with less relief that they saw something moving through the mist a little way behind them. 

Curufin dropped to the ground, and for a moment the hobbits were afraid that he had been struck by another arrow, though they had heard nothing, but his next words relieved them of this fear. "Orc feet," he said. "The land groans under them. There are perhaps forty of them." Then, rising to his feet, he added, "To the Forest, at once!" 

For the second time in as many days, the hobbits found themselves running for their lives towards Fangorn Forest, Curufin on their heels, urging them on. Now, however, shelter was close and their pursuers further behind. They entered the forest beside a small stream which flowed down from the mountains into the lower ground of the forest, crossed the stream, and, with Curufin now in front, took a course seemingly at random into the woods. He did not tell them where he was going, and they did not ask, for his face was tight with pain once more and he did not look as though he had either words or patience to spare for explanations. It was Frodo who first realised that Curufin was following the gleams of early-morning sunshine that reached through the trees, indicating places where the forest was less dense. 

Though no sign of their pursuers was visible, Curufin did not slow his pace until they reached a hill that rose above the trees, its bare, grassy top a strange sight in that world of bark and lichen and hanging moss. Up its rough sides he led them, following what looked rather like a natural staircase, until they reached an outcropping which gave them a full view of the path which they had just trodden. The outcropping was empty save for one old, twisted tree which had only two branches left, and a few worn boulders tossed here and there on the ground as though they had fallen from above in some long-gone day when the hill was a mountain with craggy sides of stone, rather than a rounded green swell in the earth among endless trees. Curufin sat down rather heavily on one of these, pressing his good hand to his wounded shoulder. Frodo and Sam exchanged worried glances, but sat down as well, for their one halt in the past twenty-four hours had not given them any opportunity to rest.

They sat like that for some time, eyes trained on the forest before them, waiting as the sun rose up from the East and the light grew fuller. Still they saw and heard nothing. "Mr. Curufin," Sam ventured, "Where are we going?"

Curufin blinked as though called back to himself from a distance, and turned to Sam. "Nowhere, until I am sure we are not pursued," he answered. "We cannot outrun those who chase us, and if we are to shake their pursuit, we must be able to walk. This place has a view that will, I hope, enable us to see our pursuers if they catch up to us, and it is defensible if the worst comes to the worst. We may as well make camp, but be ready to pack up swiftly."

Sam looked around them. "Should I light a fire?"

"No! This is not a forest where the trees should be touched lightly, and I would not have you stray in search of dead wood. Here," he added, opening his pack and taking out three of what looked like flat cakes of bread, "is food that will serve us for the moment. It is _lembas_, waybread in your tongue, and it will serve to strengthen both spirit and body. We all have need of it, I think."

The three travellers munched their _lembas_ in silence. Just as Sam was going to suggest that Curufin and Frodo (who had not, to Sam’s mind, been looking quite himself since their dip in the river) get some rest, when he glimpsed movement among the trees. About to direct Curufin’s attention to it, he saw that the Elf had already noticed. "Take your packs and be ready to follow me," Curufin whispered to them. "When we go, move slowly and take all the cover you can find. I do not think that they have seen us yet."

Just as Sam started down the rough stone stairway that would lead them back down into the woods, a harsh shout sounded from the forest, and an enormous, powerful hand closed around Sam’s waist and lifted him into the air. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Frodo was similarly so suspended, but that was all he had time to notice, for then he was looking into the eyes of…a tree?

Curufin stared at the Ent, for that was what this creature had to be, as it lifted Frodo and Sam off the ground without apparent effort, and gazed steadily at them. Despite his worry for the hobbits’ safety, he considered the Orcs a much worse threat than a creature of Yavanna, however old and odd, and turned to brace himself for an attack — which never came. Peering closely into the forest, he saw that it looked as though a heavy branch had fallen and crushed the unfortunate orc which had shouted at them. Doubly glad that he had warned Sam against starting a fire, he turned back to the Ent and the hobbits, just in time to hear the Ent ask in a slow, deep voice that seemed to be composed of the creaking of branches, the sigh of wind through leaves, and the booming of a hollow log, "Hoom, and what might you be? Little creatures running through my forest with a pack of orcs might be orcs themselves. Are you?"

Frodo and Sam looked rather too startled to say anything, and Curufin did not blame them. "They are no orcs, Tree-herder," he replied. "They are Halflings, who call themselves Hobbits, and they and I mean to do no harm to your forest."

The gaze of those well-deep eyes was turned slowly upon Curufin, who was immediately certain that this was a very old Ent, even for one of that slow-aging race. "And you — you are an Elf, such as I have not seen in my woods for many and many an age, and a hasty one, to tell me what these are without first asking anything about me. What business brings you here, where your people have not come for so long, even as I count the years, with two of a kind of creature that is not in the old lists?"

"I am hasty, Master Ent, because I and my companions are, as you saw, pursued by orcs. I will gladly tell you such of our business as I may, but I would rather do so in a safer place."

"You are not pursued by orcs any longer, Master Elf. My trees do not love creatures that walk on two feet, but orcs — _burarum_ —" (and here he made a rumbling sound _like discord on a great organ_) "orcs they hate, and I hate, for they come with fire and axes, _gnawing, biting, breaking, hacking, burning!_ These orcs will not find their way out of the forest of Fangorn."

"Then, sir," Sam put in respectfully, "as we’re not orcs, would you like to put us down? You must be tired holding us up like this." 

"Tired?" The Ent seemed to muse on this. "No, I do not easily get tired. But I shall put you down if you wish it, for creatures of the Enemy do not travel with Elves." 

"Thank you very much, sir, please do," Sam replied. 

When he and Frodo were placed back on the ground, Frodo, feeling that some action was necessary, said, "I am Frodo Baggins, and this is my companion Samwise Gamgee. Lord Curufin is leading us to Gondor on an errand which I may not speak more of at present, but which is a part of the great war that is brewing agains the Enemy. What shall we call you?" 

"Hoom, hom," said the Ent, "You, too, are hasty folk, it seems, to tell me your names so easily. But I do not think that you are evil folk. To tell you my real name would take a very long time, for names in Old Entish are the story of what they belong to, and anyway I do not think that I wish to tell you my name just yet. But you may call me Treebeard." 

"The forest of Fangorn indeed," Curufin mused softly, "or perhaps it should be called Fangorn’s Forest. This place takes its name from you, then?" 

"Yes, Fangorn is my name, if you like your own tongue better," the Ent said. "And now I think it is time to leave this…what is it, the thing that we stand on, in your language? 

"Hill?" Sam suggested. 

"Step? Ledge?" Frodo added. 

"Hmmm, yes, this hill, _though it is a hasty word for something which has stood here since this part of the world was formed._ Nevertheless, we shall leave it and go somewhere safe, and you shall tell me of this errand, as much as you think you should, while we walk. But it is a long way, and you are small folk. Shall I carry you again?" 

Tired as they were, the hobbits were quite ready to receive a little help from Treebeard, who accordingly picked them up and set off down the hillside path, which seemed perfectly suited for his long legs. Curufin, swaying a little, rose to follow, but as he started down the uneven steps, he caught his foot in a hollow of the rocks and fell, hard, without making more than a slight attempt to break his fall with his good arm. Frodo and Sam both cried out, and Treebeard, turning, regarded Curufin once more with his slow, penetrating gaze. Curufin, with a good deal of effort, got himself out of the awkward sprawl into which he had fallen, but did not seem to be able to stand. "It seems to me," Treebeard said, transferring Frodo to sit on his shoulder, "that the orcs have done more than chase you and your friends." 

Curufin nodded wearily, and did not protest as Treebeard’s surprisingly gentle hand lifted him off the ground. "Frodo," he managed, before slipping into what was as much a faint as it was slumber, "tell him what you think best of our errand." 

Meanwhile, in Isengard, a _palantir_ woke to life, and the impulse of thought that travelled across it woke something nearer to fear in the heart of he who still called himself Mairon than he had admitted to in many centuries. _Curufin? Curufin Fëanorion, for who else would bear that name? What trickery of Mandos is this?_ He needed no _palantir_ to send a second message, to the nine servants whose will had long been his: _Find this Elf. Find any like him. Destroy them. Send forth the legions of Dol Guldor against Mirkwood. Ready the army of Morgul for attack. They must not reach allies._ Then he reached out even further, for the mind, much akin to his, that had long slept under Caradhras, until the Dwarves were fool enough to call it into half-waking: _Wake. There is work to do, my brother._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Urqui_, I believe, is Quenya for orcs.
> 
> My search engine probably thinks I'm looking into a secondary career in emergency medicine, or possibly bow-hunting, from the amount of research I did to figure out where you can get shot with an arrow seriously enough to be put out of a fight without being immediately incapacitated and/or killed outright (there aren't as many places as you might think), not to mention research to figure out what you can DO if you've been shot by an arrow and don't have access to professional medical care. All the medical procedures here are legitimate, historical things that have been done to treat wounds, although they are very, very bad ideas if you have access to actual modern medicine.


	12. The Steward and the General

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our heroes arrive in Gondor, where not everything goes smoothly. Denethor is less than pleased with the direction of events. Maedhros is concerned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens further!
> 
> Also, Maedhros is back, and with him his associated warnings: depression, suicidal ideation, and a pretty clear description of actual suicide. If you want to avoid the suicide stuff, skip from the paragraph that starts "They, too, refused our request to fulfil our oath," to "Eventually, Maedhros seemed to come back to himself," five paragraphs later.

As Gandalf and Curufin made their stand against the Uruk-hai of Isengard, Boromir was leading Maedhros and Pippin to Gondor, staying well away from the places inhabited by the Men of Rohan. There had been a good deal of discussion in the group before their separation as to whether the Gondor party should stop in Edoras to get horses, but Gandalf had warned them that the delay resulting from Saruman’s hold on the court might be greater than the gain in speed if they succeeded, not to mention the peril if Saruman got wind of the Ring’s location, and in the end they had decided to continue on foot. It did not sit well with Boromir, he said, to sneak as a spy through the land of his allies, but he acknowledged the danger from a Theoden who was heavily under Saruman’s influence and yielded to necessity. Maglor had promised to have horses sent after them if he could manage it in any way, but either he was unable to send them or the Riders with whom he sent them could not find Pippin and his companions. 

Though they were covering the same ground, more or less, as Maglor, Merry and Aragorn, the latter three had made their way through the land openly, and were picked up by a patrol of Rohirrim the second day after they had forded the Isen. Boromir looked as though he wanted very much to go and speak to the Riders, and Maedhros (to Pippin, who was fairly good at reading faces of cousinly or brotherly exasperation) looked as though he was ready to knock Boromir down and sit on him if he tried. The end of the matter was that the Rohan party were made to ride on some of the horses with empty saddles and taken away to Edoras as quickly as possible. Once the Riders had gone, Maedhros resumed his usual punishing pace, though he was careful to avoid the Riders’ trail.

Pippin had thought, when he reached Rivendell, that he had seen adventure and learned a bit about hardship. He knew better now than to assume so. The second leg of their journey, though not more frightening, had been far more physically taxing than the first. They walked all day, and often far into the night, and hid in hollows of the grass, frozen still (which was much harder than it sounded) on those rare occasions when there were people near. Maedhros and Boromir both seemed to have instincts that alerted them to the presence of others, and usually one or the other of them had dragged Pippin down out of someone’s line of sight before he had any idea that they were not alone. 

Whenever they felt secure, which was often enough, since Rohan was an open country where anyone who was coming could be seen for miles, Pippin’s lessons in swordplay continued, though he protested that it was unfair for the other hobbits to have gotten out of their lessons just because they happened to be going somewhere else. Unfortunately for him, Maedhros and Boromir both seemed immune to the pleading looks he had perfected as the youngest of four siblings and either ignored his complaints or (if they were sparring) took advantage of his distraction to smack him on the head with the flat of a sword. 

He had to admit, however, that the session when he realised that he had gotten fast enough to _do_ something about it when he could tell that one of his instructors was getting ready to smack him on the head was a very satisfying one. After he had parried properly a few times and even managed a counterattack once, Maedhros had said, "Now you might, possibly, have a chance of walking away from a battle. Well done, Pippin."

Disconcerting as that sounded, from Maedhros it was glowing praise, and Pippin stood there and grinned like a loon until Boromir attacked him from behind and the spar started up again.

Six days after they forded the Isen, they came after another long day of marching to the ruined section of the walls of the Pelennor which faced towards Rohan. The guards were more than happy to welcome their Captain-General back to the city, along with his friends, and Boromir soon had an unofficial guard of assorted off-duty soldiers, plus a fair number of civilians, who escorted them into the city, cheering. Pippin’s eyes were very wide as they passed through the great arch in the city’s thick, black, jointless outer wall that let them into the first circle. 

Maedhros did not show it, but he, too, was more than slightly impressed. His fortress of Himring, though a work of Elvish hands and therefore not wholly without beauty, had been built for function over form, at a time when he could not have possibly cared less for aesthetic concerns, with thick walls of the plain grey granite that was the strongest stone they could find and narrow windows to keep out both the chill wind and the arrows. (It had been a standing jest among his soldiery that you were never sure if the sting you felt while on guard was an orc-arrow, or just the wind. Whatever wit had named the place "cool-cold" was not wrong.) Minas Tirith was a mighty stronghold, such as any general would rejoice to hold, but it was also a place of beauty. The shaping of the great mountain-prow that clove the city in two was very Elvish in its melding of nature and craft, but this was unmistakably a city of Men — the architecture was changeful, showing different fashions down the years — and it was the better for it. Maedhros could see why Boromir always spoke of the White City of his home with love and longing. He only hoped that the end of the war would see Minas Tirith still standing.

The city was divided into seven circles, each with its own wall and guarded gate, each placed higher up the mountain than the last, so that even if the first gate was breached, the enemy would have an uphill fight all the way to the next wall, and then would find another gate to take. The city plan had clearly been designed by a near-peerless strategic mind with a remarkable grasp of the uses of terrain and of house-to-house fighting. Maedhros wondered whose mind it was — if the architect had been Elendil the King, or his son Isildur, or some advisor, or perhaps all three.

He had been so absorbed in the city around him that he had ceased to pay much heed to his companions, and he was brought back to himself by Pippin tugging, child-like, at the hem of his tunic. Evidently other methods of obtaining his attention had failed. "Maedhros, please, slow down! I may have been on my feet all day and all night for the past months, but I am only a hobbit, and your legs are longer than I am tall!"

Maedhros slowed his pace accordingly, and looked over at Boromir, who was giving him a rather anxious look that he remembered well from his past past. It was not one he had expected to see on the usually self-assured soldier’s face. Boromir looked like a young soldier who had just made his first suggestion for a battle-plan and was waiting for his general’s approval or disapproval. Maedhros was caught rather off guard and more than a little touched, for he had not expected Boromir to expect or care about his opinion of Minas Tirith. 

"Not many places I have seen marry tactical brilliance with beauty," he said. "This city is the work of a true master, of both. I can think of no better place to prepare the coming war, and few where I would rather stay in time of peace."

"No more can I," Boromir replied with a smile. "No more can I…" he repeated, trailing off. "I hope, someday, to see my city at peace," he added after a moment. "The histories say that she was very fair in those days."

"She is very fair still," Maedhros answered. "And if it lies in our power, we will see her at peace, you and I."

Boromir made as though to say something else, but then glanced at the crowd which still followed them, and was silent. 

The crowd faded away as they walked through the tunnel that led up to the seventh circle of the City, the Citadel of Gondor. Guards stood around a swath of green grass, the first Maedhros had seen in the City of Stone, in the centre of which stood a tree with white branches. From the branches fell a sparkling dew of light. Maedhros stopped so suddenly that Pippin ran into his legs. "Telperion," he breathed, half a prayer and half a question.

Then he looked again, and saw that the tree was dead. A fountain played over its bare and withered branches, and the light caught in the water as it fell again into the basin. Boromir had stopped, perceiving that his guests were no longer with him, and looked inquiring. Maedhros took a breath and put aside the ghosts of memory as best he could, and stepped out into the cold winter sunlight at Boromir’s side, ignoring his companion’s curious glance. He settled into the position of a second-in-command, on Boromir’s right hand and a half-step behind him, instinctively matching his strides to those of the Man who led the way, as the doors of the great hall and throne-room opened to admit them, Pippin almost running at Boromir’s other side.

Half-way down the hall, Maedhros respectfully halted, Pippin following suit. Boromir walked forward and embraced Denethor, who met him halfway, smiling. "Welcome, my son!" he exclaimed. "It gives me joy to see you returned safely in this time of peril. You must tell me of all that has befallen you these past months!"

"It gives me joy to return home, Father! It has not sat well with me to be away from my city at such a time. But before I report to you what I have seen and done, I must first introduce my companions. This is Maedhros Fëanorion, prince of the Noldor and lord of Himring, returned to aid us with both counsel and arms, and this is Peregrin Took of the Shire, who has come to my company through more peril and fear than some of our soldiers have ever faced."

Denethor turned to face his guests, surprise written on his features. Pippin bowed low and said something about it being an honour. Maedhros met Denethor’s eyes, and froze.

_Maedhros had always known his own madness._ After the Nirnaeth, his brothers had thought that he was coping as well as could be expected. He had known otherwise. For all that he had learned to show a general’s calm, collected face to the world and even to his kin, every time he looked at a mirror after that horrible day, he had seen the Oath, and future that he knew would be his as surely as he knew that the war was lost, staring back at him from guilt-wild eyes framed by hair the colour of bloodstains. In the end, he had smashed the mirror in his chambers at Amon Ereb. Nobody had replaced it, but it had done him no good. He had still known exactly what he would see in any mirror. It had been something of a surprise, when he had left Mandos, to see sanity in his face once more, and he was still unused to it.

It was a greater surprise than that had ever been to look into the eyes of Boromir’s father — the eyes of Elros’ descendant, for there could be no mistaking his heritage — and find his own madness staring out at him from storm-grey eyes. _This is not going to go well,_ he thought.

Denethor gave his guests a calmly appraising glance. To all appearances he was perfectly sane, if rather grim of face. Maedhros gave him the respectful bow of one leader to another, well aware that Denethor would understand all the implications it carried. The Man’s eyebrow rose a fraction, but he gave no other response, and ordered that chairs be brought for his son and his son’s companions. 

Once they were seated, Boromir delivered his report on the Council of Elrond, leaving out nothing. Maedhros would have preferred that the matter of the Ring be left silent, but Boromir was not one to keep secrets from his liege-lord, especially not when that liege-lord was also his father. Asking him to do so would have done nothing save anger him, so Maedhros had not.

As Denethor listened to Boromir’s tale, he remained outwardly calm for the most part, though his eyes flashed strangely at the first mention of the Ring. He listened with evident approval to Boromir’s account of the hoped-for alliance with the Elves and the Dwarves, but when they reached the plan for the destruction of the Ring, he seemed ill-pleased, and only became more so when it was clear that they had sent the Ring on its way with only three companions for the Bearer. Little of note had taken place on their road from the Isen to Gondor, and so the tale was soon after concluded. Denethor was silent for some minutes, and then he turned to Maedhros. "Well, Master Elf, it seems the histories do not exaggerate your skills as a general," he said.

Maedhros bowed slightly and was silent. Denethor continued, "Nevertheless, though I can see why you might think the destruction of the Enemy’s Ring useful to our cause, surely you can see that it would be better to keep it safely away from both the battlefield and the Enemy? Those whom you have sent with it, excepting your brother, are not the heroes of the First Age whom you are doubtless used to deploying. Mithrandir is a meddler in the affairs of others, and the halflings will be little use in the hardships under which they will soon be labouring. That leaves your brother to complete his errand all but alone, in the midst of the war you have just outlined! You say that the Ring will pass through Ithilien: very well, let us send to meet it and bring it and its bearer to safety in this city."

Boromir remained silent and looked uncomfortably to Maedhros. Maedhros bowed slightly in acknowledgement of the compliment, and only answered, "My lord Denethor, much of what you say is true." 

Boromir, who was, Maedhros thought, more of a diplomat than he would have expected, revealed his surprise only by a flicker in his eyes. The impassive mask which he subsequently donned made him look very like his father for a moment, despite the difference of face between them. Pippin turned to Maedhros with undisguised shock on his face, clearly about to say something. Disregarding both of them and speaking over whatever Pippin had been about to say, Maedhros continued, "However, the Council of Elrond did not send the Ring on its way to Mordor as we did without good reason. There is much to be spoken of on this matter, but I and my companions have just ended a long journey and it draws towards nightfall. Now is perhaps not the best time to speak of matters of great policy."

Denethor gave him another measuring glance, but let the evasion go for the moment and bade the servants show the guests to their quarters. Boromir rose as though to leave with them, but Denethor motioned him back. Boromir gave Maedhros an apologetic glance and turned back to his father as the guards led Maedhros and Pippin out of the great hall. Maedhros was certain that the reprieve he had gained for them was a very temporary one, but such as it was, he would use it to the best of his ability.

Their quarters were on the sixth level of the city, with windows which faced outwards towards the Anduin and white stone walls hung with dull gold cloth. As soon as their guides had accepted thanks and returned to their duties, Pippin turned to Maedhros. "Why didn’t you tell him that the Ring had to be destroyed? I thought that was what we were supposed to do!"

Before answering, Maedhros put his ear to the door and listened for almost a minute. Satisfied that there was no-one close enough to hear them, he said, "I do not think that he would have listened, Pippin. He does not strike me as the kind of man who takes well to being contradicted. None in Gondor, I think, has both the will and power to check him, and he is not used to disagreement. He did not like my refusal to agree with him just now, though I softened it as much as I could. He will like it still less if I tell him that the Ring cannot and will not come here."

"But Caranthir said that the only point of me and Merry coming along at all was that we’re sensible about the Ring and what needs to be done with it, and ought to get other people to listen to us! If I can’t do that, what use am I?"

"That was not the only reason. You remember that you are also serving as a hobbit in Gondor, the place where the Enemy will expect the Ring, which he knows is in the keeping of a hobbit, to go. But when Caranthir spoke of getting people to listen to sense, he meant people who were both willing and able, in some measure, to hear it. Denethor, I fear, is neither."

"Why can’t he listen? Or is it that he won’t?"

Maedhros sighed and bowed his head for a moment. Then he strode over to the window and looked out over the field of the Pelennor, which was cast in deep shadow by the sinking sun. Already a few stars were visible in the eastern sky, shining dimly through the haze of smoke that lay over Mordor. When he spoke again, it was out into the night. "I know that you were curious about my history and my brothers’, Peregrin. How much did Gandalf tell you?"

"Nothing," Pippin answered, a little disconsolately. "He stared at me from under his eyebrows until I went away."

A brief smile crossed Maedhros’ face. "Did your uncle tell you anything?"

"Not very much. We were all too busy talking about what you had done to talk about who you were. Cousin Frodo seemed to know well enough, but he wouldn’t say anything either once we were on the move. But what does this have to do with why Denethor can’t or won’t believe that the Ring has got to be destroyed?"

"Then it falls to me to tell you. As for what this has to do with Denethor, that will, I think, become clear as I speak." 

Then his voice took on the rhythm of one who tells a well-known story, and he said, "Long ago, before anything was save He Himself, Eru Illûvatar, the One, made the Ainur. You would call them spirits. The Ainur made music for Illûvatar, at first singly or a few together. Then He called all together and set forth for them a great theme, and together they made harmony upon it. But one of the mightiest did not wish to follow the music which Illûvatar had given him, and made his own theme. He was called Melkor, and he threw the Music into chaos. Twice Illuvatar raised His hand and a new theme began among those who still followed His music. Each time Melkor and those who followed him warred against it. A third time He raised His hand, and _with a single great chord, deeper than the abyss, higher than the firmament, the Music ceased._ Then Illûvatar showed to the Ainur in a vision that which they had sung, and it was the world in which we live. He spoke, and the vision was given being, and became Eä, the World That Is. Some of the Ainur chose to descend into Eä, which was yet unfinished, and accomplish what they had seen and sung. They are called the Valar, the Powers of the World, and their servants are the Maiar. Among them was Melkor, who desired to rule Eä, though that was not his right. Ever he was at strife with the other Valar, but they mastered him in the end, and for three ages he was imprisoned. 

"While this imprisonment lasted, the first of the Elves woke under the stars of Cuiviénen, the Waters of Awakening, my grandfather among them, and the Valar brought them to Valinor. There my father was born, under the light of the Two Trees of light that the Valië Yavanna made to shine in Valinor, and there he married my mother Nerdanel and raised myself and my brothers. There he wrought his greatest work: the Silmarilli, gems in which the light of the Two Trees was caught, and shone ever unstained. No work was made like them, before or since. But Melkor, released by the mercy of the Valar, coveted them, and sowed unrest between my father and his brothers. He found my father too ready to his hand, and in the end Fëanor was banished from the city of Tirion for his deeds. Then Melkor destroyed the Two Trees, and stole the Silmarilli, and murdered my grandfather Finwë, shedding the first blood in the Blessed Realm of Valinor." Maedhros’ voice had lost the lilt of a storyteller, and was now flat and perfectly controlled.

"My father was driven all but mad by his father’s death, coming as it did with the darkening of Valinor and the loss of his most precious works. He broke his banishment and returned to Tirion, and in his madness he sought to lead his people to revenge upon Melkor, whom he named anew Morgoth, the Dark Enemy. He swore a great oath of revenge upon Morgoth and any who withheld the Silmarilli from him, calling the Valar and Illûvatar himself to witness, and calling down the Everlasting Darkness upon himself should he fail. I and my brothers, fools that we were, swore with him.

"We had no ships to take us back across the sea from Valinor to Middle-Earth, and when the sailor-folk on the coast would not give us passage, since the Valar had neither ordered nor blessed our going, we fell upon them, slew those who resisted, and took their ships. That was the second blood spilled in Valinor, and the curse of the Valar followed us ever after because of it, myself and my brothers most of all.

"In the end, we came to Middle-Earth, though not without further grief. One of the Silmarilli was taken from Morgoth by Beren and Lúthien, whose tale I know you know, and they would not give it to us. Twice we attacked their descendants, driven by our oath, but though we slew and were slain until only myself and Maglor remained of all my brothers, we did not gain what we sought, and that Silmaril passed West with Eärendil. 

"We knew it was wrong. We knew we were fools, and had been since we swore the Oath. I did, at least. But I fought on, against both foes and those who should have been friends. Nothing save main force could have stopped me, for the Oath burned like a brand, and I had sworn it again with all my brothers as my father lay dying.

"It was the Host of the Valar which overthrew Morgoth in the end, and regained the other two Silmarilli." Here he was silent for a while once more, and Pippin saw that his knuckles had gone white where he gripped the windowsill, but he gave no other sign, and his voice was as level as ever when he continued.

"They, too, refused to allow the fulfilment of our oath. Eonwë, the herald of the Valar, said that our deeds in service of our Oath had made our right to our father’s works void. As though I wanted them by then! But the thrice-cursed Oath would not let me be. Maglor would have surrendered and accepted the judgement of the Valar, but I — I feared what might be if they forbade the fulfilment of the Oath forever and yet brought us to Valinor. Would we have been driven to bring war to the Blessed Realm? I do not know. I thought so then. I persuaded Maglor to help me take back the Silmarilli. We stole into their camp by night. The Silmarilli were under guard. We slew the guards, but the alarm was raised and we found ourselves surrounded. I expected no mercy. I did not fear death. Indeed, I hoped for it. But they let us go. We fled.

"Then we opened the box that held those gems for which we had fought so long, and each of us took one, for there were only the two of us now. They burned us, burned our hands black as they had Morgoth’s when he stole them. Our oath was fulfilled. Our right was void.

"Maglor fled towards the sea, crying his pain aloud. I did not know what became of him, for I could not bring myself to follow. Beleriand was falling in ruins around me, for when the Powers go to war, the shape of the world is changed. There was a great chasm in the earth that spouted fire near where I stood. My father had died in fire, bidding us fulfil his oath and carry out our vengeance. It was fitting, I thought, that I do the same, my oath fulfilled. I was already on fire, or it felt so, for though the Silmaril had burned my hand black, the pain did not end. I walked to the edge and looked down into the fire below me. It was so bright that it burned my eyes." Pippin barely caught the next words, for Maedhros’ voice sank to a whisper and he bowed his head once more, as he said simply, "I jumped."

Pippin was silent, staring at Maedhros in horror. In the end, all he could manage was a half-strangled, "Why?"

Now Maedhros turned towards him, and Pippin could see that tears were flowing down his cheeks, though his face was composed and calm. "Why?" he repeated, as though surprised by the question. After a moment’s consideration, he said, "Because there was no reason not to. I had remained alive for my brothers and my oath. Both were gone now, and the Silmarilli had declared me as unworthy of their touch as Morgoth himself. I had rejected the mercy of the Valar. There was nothing left but death."

Silence fell again, and Pippin did not dare to break it. There was, he thought, something terrible in the combination of Maedhros’ seeming calm as he spoke of his own death with the silent tears which still flowed down his face. Pippin had never thought of Maedhros as being the sort of person who would ever weep. A part of him wanted to offer comfort, but how did you comfort someone who was grieving over their own death? Then there was the fact that _Maedhros had died._ Pippin had known that — more or less, since all the stories Uncle Bilbo told seemed to indicate that nearly all the elves of the First Age had died long ago — but hearing Maedhros _talk_ about it as though there was nothing odd in the fact that he had _died_ and _come back to life_ was very different.

Eventually, Maedhros seemed to come back to himself and wiped away his tears. Though his face was paler than usual, there was no other trace left of his grief. He said, "All of that is to say that I understand the state of mind which refuses the warnings counsel, wisdom and even conscience, and I understand it well. Denethor has the look of one who can see no way save his own to do what he thinks must be done. It is a look I wore for years. I do not think that any counsel will avail to turn him from his intended course with regard to the Ring."

"But we can’t let him get it! Won’t he listen to Boromir, if not to us? And what’s wrong with him anyway? He hasn’t sworn an unbreakable oath."

"No, we cannot. As for his listening to Boromir — it is more likely than his listening to us, but I am not certain that even his son can sway him from his path. We must see if Boromir is willing to cross his father so openly. Why he is so immovable, I do not know. I only know that he has a look that I wore for many years, and that it bodes nothing good."

"And if he won’t listen to Boromir? Frodo needs help to get to Mordor!"

"He has help from Mithrandir and Curufin, and that may have to be enough, though from what Boromir says of his brother Faramir, we may be able to persuade him of the necessity of offering Frodo some aid without Denethor’s knowledge, or at least of turning a blind eye to the Ring’s passage through Gondor. I will speak to Curufin and to Celegorm and tell them that there may be a need to avoid the folk of Gondor on their road."

"How are you going to do that?"

Maedhros took out what looked like a small, perfectly spherical, slightly translucent black stone from a pouch at his belt. "With this," he said.

Pippin had not forgotten his earlier fear, but Maedhros seemed to be slowly coming back to normal, and he was very curious about how a rock could possibly let Maedhros talk to his brothers. "What is that?" he asked.

"It is called a _palantír._ My father invented them. Curufin made one for each of us before we left Valinor. Each alone allows the user to see pictures of things that are happening far away, but combined with its brothers it can communicate with any of the other stones. There were once some in Gondor, gifts that the Númenoreans received from the Elves and carried back to Middle-Earth in their exile. There may be some here still, but I have heard naught of them."

"Can I see?" Pippin asked tentatively.

Maedhros wordlessly handed the stone to him, and Pippin peered curiously at it. "Nothing’s happening," he said.

"You have to look _into_ it," Maedhros said, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Concentrate on what you want to see, and it will be easier than simply looking for whatever the _palantír_ chances to show you. Or think of one of my brothers, and he will be very much surprised to hear from a hobbit instead of me!"

Pippin looked more closely at the stone, and thought very hard about his family in the Shire. Then he started, for the stone was no longer black at its centre, but the white of well-whitewashed walls. He seemed to be looking at perfect, tiny miniatures of his mother Eglantine, his sister Pervinca, and her friend Diamond, all standing in a tiny miniature of the main kitchen in his family’s _smial_. His mother was sternly shaking a ladle at Pervinca and Diamond, who did not look terribly penitent for whatever they had done. He could not hear what was going on, but the expression on Eglantine’s face was clear enough: it was one that he had been on the receiving end of fairly often, and meant that she was actually amused by whatever had been done, but was hiding it in order to at least attempt to dispense familial justice.

"What do you see?" Maedhros asked.

"Mum is scolding 'Vinca and Di again," Pippin said with a smirk. "My sister and her best friend, that is," he added, seeing Maedhros' confusion. "They’re always up to something. In fact, I learned most of my pranks from 'Vinca. Those I didn’t learn from Merry, that is."

Pippin was about to ask if he could try to surprise one of Maedhros’ brothers, or if he should give the _palantír_ back now, when he heard a step in the passageway, and then a knock at the door. His mind flew to Denethor for a moment, wondering if somehow they had been overheard, and then he had the very odd sensation that Denethor was looking at him from somewhere with a mixture of curiosity and disapproval. But then he heard Boromir’s voice calling, "Maedhros? Pippin?" and the sensation faded. He handed the _palantír_ back to Maedhros, and together they went to answer the door.

"Forgive me for keeping you waiting," Boromir said once they had let him in. "My father had many questions for me about the details of your plan, especially as regards the Ring, though on that subject I said as little as possible. Why did you say nothing to him of its dangers?"

Maedhros shook his head sadly and repeated, more or less, what he had said to Pippin of knowing the look in Denethor’s eyes. He did not, however, include his explanation of why he knew it so well. Pippin was rather relieved. That was a tale that he did not think he would ever wish to hear again. Certainly he did not wish to hear it told twice in one night.

Boromir looked grim, and said, "I fear that you speak truly, at least in part. My father is not accustomed to having his will crossed in matters where his mind is made up. Though I prevailed on him to let me take the road to Rivendell rather than Faramir, I deem that he allowed that because he favours me, perhaps more than he should, and because he deemed the errand an important one, though I do not know why. In this matter, I do not think that he would heed my counsel."

"What do you mean to do about it then?" Pippin asked.

Boromir looked even grimmer, and said, "Is there no way that this thing can be safely brought to Gondor? Could not Frodo keep it within these walls?"

"But it would still be here," Pippin said.

"Pippin is right. The Ring once in Gondor, it would work on your father’s mind, and the minds of many others, no matter who held it. Frodo would not keep it for long." Maedhros looked startled as he said this, and added to himself, "Oh. Matters are worse than I thought."

"What do you mean?" Boromir and Pippin asked together.

"There is more than despair and determination in your father’s eyes. He has the look not only of one who cannot be persuaded, but of one who is under attack."

"Under attack? How? Who?" Boromir now looked positively furious, and ready to go out and fight whoever had attacked his father.

"Not physically. Mentally. Thauron’s taint is on him."

"How dare you? My father is no traitor, and I will give the lie to any who dares say so! He has ruled this city and borne her cares so faithfully that he is grown old before his time in her service!"

"I did not call him a traitor. I said that he was under attack. There is more than one way to destroy an enemy. One who is broken physically can heal and rise again, but one whose mind is broken — he cannot. The Enemy of old used such attacks on all those who dared to stand against him. He sent wraiths of terror, and evil winds that carried poison to the body and the soul, and he made his soldiers from those of my own people whom he captured and tormented out of all semblance of themselves. Your father looks as though Morgoth’s evil winds have touched him, withering him before his time and driving him towards despair. He is a mighty man to have stood so long, but no one can withstand such an attack forever, and I fear that he is near to the breaking point. His is not a will which will submit to the enemy. He will break rather than bend. It is what he may do after he breaks that I fear. The Ring’s presence here would only make it easier for the Enemy to reach him."

"Then I will do what I can to keep it from coming here." There was helpless frustration in Boromir’s voice as he spoke. "But you had best think of what to do if it does. I am not sure that I can stop Father, or that I should. I can think of worse things than the Ring coming here. This is the stronghold of those who have stood longest against Sauron. They will find the strength to resist the Ring if they must."

"I can also think of worse things," Maedhros added with a note of dark humour in his voice, "but most of them involve Morgoth." Then his deadly seriousness returned, as he said, "Keep the Ring away from this place, Boromir. Do whatever you must. Please. I have no wish to see Minas Tirith made into a second Barad-Dur by a new Ringlord."

Boromir said nothing more on the matter, but bade them good night in a worried voice and walked away with his head bowed and shoulders slumped. Maedhros and Pippin looked at each other in worry, but remained silent. There was nothing more to do or say for the moment. 

Pippin went to bed soon after Boromir left — even all the worrisome news that that day had brought could not keep him from enjoying the fact that he had _a real bed, under a roof_, and a very soft bed at that. Just before he went to sleep, he saw Maedhros take out his _palantír_ and look intently at it at it. He drifted off with the soft, melodious sounds of Quenya in his ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Maedhros had always known his own madness" is quoted almost verbatim from a fix-it fic where Fëanor literally inhabits the Silmarils after his death and can talk to anyone who holds one.
> 
> Yes, the literal translation of "Himring" is "cool-cold." Somebody must have seriously gotten cold feet there. (Sorry. I had to.)
> 
> Pervinca and Diamond are not OCs. Pervinca is Pippin's canon sister, and Diamond his canon (future) wife. Their friendship, however, is my own headcanon for this work.
> 
> Morgoth's attacks on the Elves of Beleriand as described by Maedhros are loosely based on the descriptions in bunn's _Quenta Narquelion_ and _Return to Aman_.


	13. First Deleted Scene Now Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Update on the status of this story and its deleted scenes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm terribly behind on my posting schedule, sorry. I am working to remedy that. In the meanwhile, have some deleted scenes!

So this is not a chapter. Chapter 11 is coming along, but rather slowly. To give y'all something to read in the mean time, I wrote some deleted scenes and made a new series to hold those, together with this work. Check out the second entry in the "War of the Ring" series at the top to see the new stuff!


	14. The King of the Golden Hall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn, Maglor and Merry arrive in Rohan and discover Saruman's machinations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I'm back again, two weeks late or something like that. Bad Morwen, no biscuit. My only excuse is that I have not yet succeeded in climbing out of the Star Wars fandom. (If you find any otherwise inexplicable cases of Yoda-syntax in this work, that's why. If enough time watching SW you spend, develop a tendency to speak backwards, your wise old characters will. Treebeard had a very narrow escape.)

Now our tale must turn back again, to the days before Merry, Aragorn and Maglor found the Riders of Rohan. Unlike the party bound for Gondor, they made their way across the plains with no attempt at concealment, bearing towards Edoras. On the first day after they forded the Isen, they saw neither man nor beast. The outskirts of Rohan, it seemed, were abandoned. Aragorn shook his head grimly at this. "Not all is well, if the Rohirrim fear attacks from Mordor over Anduin. When last I heard, the Enemy had not crossed the Great River."

"They may not yet be in fear of Thauron," Maglor answered. "Curunir alone would be reason enough to draw their folk nearer to places where they can be defended."

"Nevertheless, I do not think that this bodes well. The Rohirrim are not the sort to retreat gladly before any foe."

"Whatever it bodes, we can do naught but go forward. I have seen such things as Mithrandir spoke of in the court of Rohan before, in other places, and I know remedies for them."

Rohan was _a green and pleasant place_ to walk in, and the grass was soft on bare feet, but Merry was rather lonely. Aragorn was somber company at all times, and Maglor seemed to have fallen into silence since they had parted ways with his brothers: he sang much but spoke little, and all that he sang sounded sorrowful. Most of all, Pippin was not there. Merry was glad that he had been sent away to the comparative safety of Minas Tirith, but he had not realised how much Pippin’s unquenchable cheerfulness and occasional antics had lightened their journey. Now, he was alone, with an heir of kings and an ancient hero, going to war.

The second day after their fording of the Isen, about mid-morning, Maglor halted the company with a gesture and stood perfectly still, peering back along the way that they had come. Then he turned to Aragorn, and said, "There are many riders coming towards us at great speed: tall, fair men on tall grey horses, with light spears and shields, like to the children of Hador as I knew them once in Beleriand, had they been horsemen."

"The Rohirrim," Aragorn replied. "Let us go on; they will soon overtake us."

Swiftly they strode on, but more swiftly the Riders followed, until first Aragorn, then Merry, could see them, and then hear them. When they were nearly on top of the travellers, the column of horsemen split in two, and formed two rings, circling around the strangers in opposite directions. Any attempt to escape the double circle of thundering hooves and ringing steel would have ended in swift death, whether beneath the hooves of the horses or upon the spears of their riders. 

All at once, at some signal from their leader, the Riders halted, and the three wanderers found themselves in the centre of a thicket of spears, all pointed inwards. Merry felt very small, looking up the long spear-shafts at the great men on their tall horses, far above his head. Neither Aragorn nor Maglor made any sign until the circle of the Riders parted to make way for one who seemed to be their chief. A white horsetail floated from his crest, and he bore a fair cuirass, curiously worked with leather and bright metal. He looked curiously at them, and then said, in the tone of one accustomed to command, _"What business do an Elf, a Man, and"_ (here he hesitated for a moment) _"a Dwarf have in the Riddermark?_ What are your names, and how did you come so far into this country unchallenged?"

Merry was rather indignant at being called a Dwarf, but looked up once more at the spears surrounding him and decided it was wiser to say nothing. In any case, before he could think of anything to say, Aragorn had stepped forward and replied, "I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn. This is Maglor Fëanorion, and Meriadoc Brandybuck, a Hobbit of the Shire. We were sent by Boromir of Gondor to offer counsel and aid to Théoden King in the coming war."

"Boromir? If he wished for Théoden King to have counsel, why did he not come himself? He is a friend of Rohan, and always welcome among us."

"Urgent business took him to Gondor, and would not brook of so much as a day’s delay. War is moving, and swiftly, and he wished to return to his city with tidings as swiftly as might be."

The Rider looked doubtfully at Aragorn at this, and Merry could not help but think that it did sound rather odd, especially as Boromir’s road to Gondor lay through Rohan. He seemed to let it pass, however, and said instead, "What proof can you give that Boromir sent you in truth, and this is no fiction to gain entry into the court of Rohan, where strangers are not welcome at this time?"

Wordlessly, Maglor took a scroll, which he had produced from somewhere under his cloak, and handed it to the man, who unrolled it, examined the seal at the bottom closely, and then read the contents. 

Before they had left Rivendell, Boromir had written letters of safe-conduct for Gandalf and Maglor, on his authority as son of the Steward and Captain-General of Gondor’s forces. These letters commanded the soldiers of Gondor to assist the travellers in whatever way they could, and commended them to the care of Gondor’s allies. 

When the Rider had finished the letter, he turned to them with a somewhat friendlier face, and said, "You must forgive my doubts, friends, for in these doubtful times the Golden Hall has many enemies, some open and some hidden, but few allies. I am Théodred, Second Marshall of the Mark, son of Théoden King. You are, both in appearance and kind, true to those travellers whom Boromir describes here, and the seal is indeed his, and so I will bring you to Edoras as you have asked. Be warned, however, that my father is not over-quick to trust strangers, and your reception may be less pleasant than you would wish." 

He made as though to continue, but checked himself and instead turned to the man on his right hand, and said something in a different tongue, the upshot of which was that horses were brought for the travellers. Merry, faced with a horse nearly twice as tall as he was, was rather disconcerted until Aragorn offered to ride with him. Once they were mounted, Théodred gave a signal to his men, and the _éored,_ as Merry would later find out it was called, began to move, with the three travellers neatly hemmed in in the centre. It seemed that Théodred was taking no chances with them, letter from Boromir or no.

It was two days’ hard riding to Edoras, and Merry discovered that riding a horse, while it was certainly faster than going on foot, was no less tiring. At midmorning on the second day, Maglor said, "I see a gleam at the feet of the mountains, as though a great jewel lay upon the plain at the feet of the mountains."

_"Keen are the eyes of the Elves,"_ Théodred said, for he had fallen back to ride beside them for a little while. "You see the golden roof of Meduseld. We are less than a day’s ride distant."

Then there was silence again, until that afternoon, when the _éored,_ complete with its guests or prisoners — Merry was not sure which they were — rode up to the palisade that surrounded Edoras. The only gate was guarded, but the guards said nothing as Théodred led his men up the streets of the city. A little way below the great thatch-roofed hall which crowned the hill, the _éored_ halted, and the men dismounted. 

As soon as Merry’s feet had touched the ground, Théodred beckoned the travellers to follow him, and led them up the winding road into the courtyard of the great hall. There guards halted them, and bade them hand over their weapons. Maglor smiled at this request, and handed over his sword, daggers, and, to the surprise of the guards, the small harp he carried at his back. Aragorn was loath to give Andúril, the sword of Elendil as it had been, reforged in haste in Rivendell, into the keeping of any other man, but Maglor spoke a few words to him in Quenya, which seemed to persuade him. Even so, he would not let the guards handle his blade, but set it to lean against the wall himself, saying, _"There stands the sword of Elendil. Let no man touch it save Elendil’s heir!"_

The guard looked at him in awe, for in him there could be seen at times a majesty and power as of kings of old despite his weather-worn clothes, and said, "It shall be done according to your command, lord!"

Merry handed over his sword gladly enough, and then Théodred, his face betraying no sign of his thoughts, led them into the dimly-lit interior of Meduseld. "Théoden King," he called, "I bring guests sent by Boromir of Gondor."

The voice that answered them did not come from the dais whereon sat the aged king, but from somewhere shadowed near the front of the hall. "If Boromir of Gondor had news for Théoden King, he would have come himself. Who are these folk who claim to be sent by our ally, and what do they want in Rohan?

Before any could answer the voice from the shadows, Maglor’s voice rang out in the great hall like the clarion call of trumpets. "Théoden King," he cried, "_too long have you sat in the shadows._ Too long have you dreamt dark dreams. Too long have you hearkened to twisted words. Come forth into the light again!"

All who heard his voice stood straighter. Hope flickered in Éowyn’s eyes as she stood by the door where she had waited to greet her cousin. Théodred placed a hand on her shoulder, but his eyes, too, were trained on his father. Eomer sprang to his feet from where he had been kneeling at the king’s feet. The dim sunlight that came through the windows and the great open doors — for Maglor held them open against the guards’ protests — seemed to shine brighter.

Then the light dimmed and greyed, as though filth had been smeared over the sun’s clear face. Creeping things seemed to slither among the tapestries. Shadows lengthened and writhed, as a soft voice, a misty voice, almost a gentle voice, began to sing. Men shifted uneasily on their feet in the courtyard. Éowyn’s face fell; Théodred’s shoulders slumped and his hand fell limply down. Eomer straightened his head in defiance, but his eyes flickered worriedly to the sickly seething shadows that seemed to reach out foul and rotten hands towards the brightness that streamed in from the doors. Grima, by most called Wormtongue, stepped softly onto the dais, and with every step he took and every note he sang, age sat more heavily on Théoden King.

Maglor laughed. It was not a harsh laugh of defiance, or the shrill laughter that so often covers terror, but a laugh of true mirth, as clear as a bell. In the world of shifting shadows and foul mists into which all present seemed to have been plunged, it was as strange a sound as any man could remember hearing, and as heartening. Then he spoke. "Thou wouldest challenge me, with songs of power, Grima Wormtongue? Knowest thou who I am?"

Wormtongue flashed a snarl at him from the dais, and the darkness seemed to be suddenly all sharp edges, like spears of keen-edged mist wielded by ghostly hands. Then it shattered like clay, as Maglor began to sing. The golden sunlight grew stronger, and picked out the face of Eorl the Young as he rode across the tapestried Celebrant. It brushed over Eomer’s golden hair and called forth the brilliance of the skies from Éowyn’s blue eyes. But most of all, it shone upon Maglor and upon the King. Maglor sang the sun on the grass, and the moon on the snow. He sang the laughter of Snowbourne as it leapt down from mountain heights and caught the sun in its gleaming foam. He sang the beat of horse-hooves on the plain and the clear notes of the trumpets that called the Riders of Rohan to war. 

And Grima Wormtongue, an unclean thing drawn forth into the light, cowered, his song faltering as the shadows dispersed. But Maglor did not stop. He sang sunlight on swords, and moonlight on spear-points. He sang the thunder of Rauros-falls where Tol Brandir sprang up like a sword-thrust to meet the rising sun. He sang the joy of battle and the shouts of men who charged to meet their foe. Light had caught and kindled in his eyes until no man save Aragorn could meet his gaze. Beams of light stood and swirled about Théoden like the spears of his housecarles, like the staves of a palisade, like clear sunlit water about a grey and ancient stone. His white hair was lit with silver fire, and the spark of his dim eyes was kindled, and the years fell from him, washed away by the stream of light.

As he sang, Maglor strode forward through the hall, and none would have dared to hinder him, even had they thought it possible. When he stood before the dais, he ceased his song, and Théoden King rose to meet him, standing slowly to his full height like a man who has only just remembered how not to stoop. Tall though he was, only because he stood upon the dais could he meet Maglor’s eyes without looking up — and meet them he did, though all the brilliance of the Two Trees seemed to shine from them. _"Dark have been my dreams of late,"_ he said softly.

"Dreams they were indeed, lord, and no more. Cast them aside and _breathe the free air again_," Maglor replied.

"My lord," whimpered a voice from the floor, where Wormtongue cowered, "what does this person…"

He got no further, for Maglor rounded upon him with wrath in his voice, _"Down, snake! Keep your forked tongue between your teeth!_ You have spoken enough evil in this hall." 

Wormtongue cowered away and was silent. Théoden, for his part, paid Wormtongue no heed, but looked around his hall in open wonder, as though he saw it for the first time. Théodred strode forward and knelt at the king’s feet. "Father," he said with a smile.

Théoden raised his son to his feet and embraced him. "My son," he replied, "forgive me. I fear that I have not done all that I should these past months, either as your king or your father."

Then, turning to Éowyn and Éomer, he said, "Come forward, sister-son and sister-daughter. You, too, I have neglected of late. Éomer, it is in my mind that you had some petition of me, which I could not hear while this snake’s words" (and here he glanced at Wormtongue with scorn flashing in his eyes) "worked on my mind. Speak, now, and fear nothing, for I am myself again."

"But stay!" — he spoke again, almost in the same breath — "Rightly could our guests accuse me of discourtesy, who have not heard aught of greeting in my hall save in the rude words of my sometime counsellor! Already, my friend," and here he turned to Maglor, "I owe you a debt of gratitude which I cannot pay, and yet I do not know your name!"

Maglor knelt before the aged king, and said, "I have borne many names, Théoden King. When last I came among Men of your kindred, they named me Daegmund Swinsere, but to most, I am Maglor Fëanorion. My companions are Aragorn son of Arathorn, heir of Isildur, rightful lord of Arnor and Gondor, and Meriadoc Brandybuck of the Shire. No debt lies between us: what I did, I did gladly, alike for your sake and to strike a blow at Saruman."

"Rise, then, Daegmund, rightly called Swinsere, and know that all Rohan thanks you."

"It does indeed," Éomer added fervently from where he now stood beside the dais.

"Lord Aragorn, Master Brandybuck, I bid you welcome to Rohan," Théoden continued, smiling.

Then he turned to his guards, and said, "Our guests have travelled far and are weary. Let meat and drink be brought, and then let them have time to rest ere they be summoned before me to speak of their errand."

"Your pardon, lord," Aragorn replied, "but our errand is urgent indeed, and brooks not the slightest delay. With your permission, we shall speak of it as soon as you are ready to hear."

"Then let us speak as we eat," Théoden replied. He motioned to the guards, and two of them took Wormtongue away as others brought out a long table.

The travellers were soon seated, with Théoden at the head of the table and Théodred on his right hand. Merry applied himself to the food in silence, for their travelling fare had been very sparse indeed by hobbit standards. Maglor and Aragorn, however, spoke as they ate of the great alliance which they hoped to build against Sauron and of the messengers that had been sent elsewhere. Théoden and his household listened in silence. "My brother, together with Mithrandir, went to find Curunir, whom you call Saruman, and deal with him. They should have arrived by now, yet we have heard nothing from them," Maglor added, once he had laid out the plan. "If you will join us, Théoden King, then I would advise that our first action be against Saruman. If we find that Mithrandir and Curufin have halted his plans already, we need do nothing more. If they have failed, on the other hand, it would go ill for us if Saruman remained un-dealt with upon our flank as we rode to Gondor, for he was building an army of orc-folk with Mithrandir escaped him, and that was some weeks ago now. The longer we wait, the greater his army will grow."

When Maglor and Aragorn had fallen silent, Théoden spoke. "I have no love for Saruman, if indeed it was his craft that Grima worked upon my mind. And if matters are as you say, soon Rohan will be caught up in your war whether we will or no. Better to choose our part than to find it chosen for us and be unready. Háma," and here he turned to one of the guards, "bid our riders to the weapontake as soon as may be. Let the man who seeks us after the third day ride to Isengard!"

"We are a scattered people," he explained, turning back to Aragorn, "and time is required for the gathering of our riders, yet if we are to strike at Isengard, we must do so swiftly. Three days is the least time in which I can gather enough of my folk to ride to war."

"So be it," Aragorn replied. "On the third day, we will ride to war with Rohan, and the sword of Elendil shall shine in battle once more!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now we have spent one chapter with every single group, and we'll be going back to Lorien for the next chapter. We're about a quarter of the way through, if the characters don't completely derail my outline. 
> 
> As with most places in this story, my vision of Rohan is drawn mostly from the books, with certain details like the armour drawn from the movies.
> 
> Maglor's sudden usage of archaic English could have one of two reasons: either he has lapsed into an ancient version of Rohirric, the sort of thing that would have been spoken in the First Age, because it's the only version he knows and he wants to challenge Wormtongue in his own language, OR he has changed into the familiar from the formal version of Westron, which is actually very rude if the person you're talking to hasn't given you permission. So he could be being respectful, or incredibly rude, or (since Rohirric almost certainly also has the familiar/formal distinction) he could have found an inimitably Maglor way to be both simultaneously. You pick!
> 
> "Swinsere" means "singer," and Maglor has just demonstrated his mastery of that, hence Théoden's comment on his name.
> 
> Comments are, as always, much appreciated, and encourage me to keep writing.


	15. Earth, Air, Fire and Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The people of Lothlórien, preparing to march to war, find out that it is a good deal closer than they either expected or wanted.

In Lothlórien, preparations for war were well underway. Arrows were fletched and bows restrung, knives sharpened and armour forged. In the midst of all the preparations stood Celeborn, Galadriel, and Amrod, inspecting maps, discussing terrain, and considering where they would be most needed in the coming war. Maedhros had given his brothers the outline of a plan, but much remained to be filled in, and not the smallest question under consideration was where the folk of Lórien should go. Amrod carried a _palantír_ which enabled him to contact his brothers at need, but, as he had explained, it had to be used with caution, for the Men of Númenor had brought _palantíri_ to Middle-Earth with them, and many were lost. All the _palantíri_ answered to all, if a strong enough will wielded them, and so it was dangerous to speak of plans of battle by _palantír_ until they were certain that no stones had fallen into the hands of the Enemy. Unless there was urgent news, Maedhros had commanded them not to use their _palantíri_ until he contacted them himself.

So it was that Celeborn and Amrod now stood in debate as to whether the army of Lórien, such as it was, for their folk were not as numerous now as they had once been, should march to reinforce Thranduil in Mirkwood, or to aid Théoden of Rohan.

Celeborn it was who spoke first. "The men of Rohan fear us, Fëanorion. There has been no speech between Men and Elves in this land, save a few folk who come by way of Rivendell, and one or two in a generation who come from Gondor and return not to their own country, for centuries upon centuries. If we ride to their aid, we may find ourselves fighting those whom we wished to be allies, or they may flee before us and leave us aidless against the Orcs they fight. It is a longer journey to Mirkwood, true, but there we will be certain of our reception. Moreover, Thranduil must fight against all the massed forces of Dol Guldor, which we believe is inhabited by Nazgûl."

"It would be better if we could aid both," Amrod replied. "Thranduil faces Dol Guldor, it is true, but he leads an army of Eldar, and though they are not Calaquendi, they will do better against Thauron’s wraiths than Men would. It is for Rohan that I fear most, for they face not the wraiths of Men, but a fallen Maia, and they may well do it alone, for if Thauron strikes swiftly Gondor will not be able to aid them — indeed, Gondor may be herself in need of aid. Erebor is near to Thranduil’s kingdom; my brother Caranthir will be able to send him aid should he need it."

"Perhaps the Men of Rohan have not forgotten the aid I once rendered them, though it was many years ago," Galadriel said, speaking for the first time. "But…" she halted as a messenger climbed up onto the _talan_ where they stood and bowed hastily. "What news, Rúmil?" she asked.

"My lady," Rúmil said, "Dimrill Dale is full of smoke. It issues from the gate of Moria, and some of our border patrols have reported creatures moving amid the fumes. We do not know what has befallen, but fear that the enemy may be gathering there."

Celeborn’s face grew grim. "Moria has an evil name," he said. "Some darkness drove the Dwarves from it many years ago, and the _yrch_ took it, but it has long been quiet. Why should the _yrch_ come forth now?"

Galadriel’s face took on the look of one who sees far away, and then, for an instant, showed fear. "Moria is dark to me," she said, "but it is a darkness shot through with flame. If this is what I fear, then we shall not be able to ride to the aid of any."

_"Shadow and flame?"_ Amrod asked, eyes flashing with a strange light.

_"Shadow and flame,"_ she replied sorrowfully.

Amrod’s face twisted into a snarl, and Rúmil stepped backwards in alarm. Amrod paid him no heed, but said, "I must go to the borders, at once. Bid your people make ready swiftly for battle!"

He waited for no counsel, but sprang swiftly down the ladder. Celeborn’s face darkened, but Galadriel laid a hand on his arm gently, and said, "Forgive my cousin, husband. He has not forgotten his father’s death at the hands of the Balrogs."

"A Balrog? They were said to be destroyed."

"If I have seen truly, then it would seem that they were not. And so Dúrin’s Bane is revealed at last."

"Then whether it was his place to do so or no, our cousin commanded wisely. I will gather our people for battle."

"I will go after my cousin. If he learns aught of the foe, it were best that we know at once."

Meanwhile, Amrod strode through Caras Galadhon as though the Nine were on his heels, and all who saw his face drew back in fear. The Galadhrim had provided him with armour after the fashion of their people; a sword and bow he already had. Now he arrayed himself in his armour with all speed and hastened out of the city, and none dared challenge him.

In the afternoon of the same day, he came to the post of the border-watchers and looked out over the stream of Nimrodel down the path to the edge of the forest. The smoke that issued from the gate of Moria had spread out over the land, and its foul smell was in the air even on the borders of Lórien, but nothing could be seen.

"I am going into the dale to see what may be seen," he said to no one in particular.

"Wait, lord!" cried one of the guards. "We do not know what perils lie beneath that evil vapour. You should not go out alone."

Amrod turned to him with a light of fire — one might almost say of madness — in his eyes. "Do not hinder me!" he snarled, and strode across the Nimrodel without another word. Soon he had vanished down the path into the smoke.

Orophin shook his head and asked Haldir, "What now, brother? Your orders were that none cross the Nimrodel as yet, but that we should watch and wait only."

"We cannot go after him," Haldir replied. "We do not have the forces to rescue him if he finds danger; to attempt it would only endanger more lives. If the Noldo wishes to be slain, the _yrch_ will grant his wish, I fear, whatever we do."

"Noldo or not, such a soldier would be a great loss."

"Let us hope that he is a good enough soldier to return, then."

"Should we not send to Caras Galadhon and tell them what he has done?"

"The Lady knows," Haldir said. "In any case, our messenger would arrive too late to do any good. We can but wait and watch."

Full of wrath as he was, Amrod had not taken leave of his senses, as Haldir and Orophin feared. He knew that the smoke would hide him as well as orcs, and meant to use it, together with the darkness — for night was approaching and the mountains would soon hide the westering sun — to cover his approach. As he neared the entry to the Dimrill Dale, the smoke thickened, and forced him to skirt the foothills of the mountains to escape the valley, where it lay heavily on the ground and choked the air until it was all but unbreathable for any save orcs.

In the end, even this did not suffice, and by Mirrormere he had to tie a wetted cloth over his face before he could come any nearer to the gate of Moria. When he reached it in the end, he did not like what he saw. Orcs by the thousands were mustering in the valley, but that did not concern him overmuch. Orcs alone were easy enough to deal with. What stood outside the doors of Moria, however, was a sight that he would never forget, but had hoped never to see again. Great wings of shadow stretched far beyond the width of the great gates, beating the foul and tortured air into writhing fragments of smoke, and between them, now dimmed in thought and veiled by smoke, shone grim red flames that outlined a thoroughly familiar shape. "A _Valarauka_ indeed," he murmured, his hand clenching around the hilt of his sword.

As though the very intensity of his gaze had made him visible through the smoke, the flame-wreathed head began to turn to and fro, as though searching for something. Amrod melted swiftly into the smoke and shadows before his rage could get the better of him, and slipped away, back towards Lórien, to carry his news to the Galadhrim. Before he could move, however, he heard the rumour as of great wings in the air, and hurled himself to the earth beside a boulder, where he lay motionless, watching.

What he saw then would have been, to a Man, the stuff of nightmares. Three huge creatures, bat-winged and snake-headed, descended from the sky like diving hawks to land upon the earth, bearing a stench with them that would have been nigh unbearable were it not that the valley was already full of smoke. As they dove, a shrill, piercing cry rent the air, wailing up far beyond the range of mortal hearing. Peering warily around the edge of his boulder, Amrod saw two dark-robed shapes dismount from the fell beasts that now sat upon the ground. He would have thought that they were Men by the shape, save that within the robes was — a void. _The Ulairi,_ he thought. _So Thauron has sent forth his wraiths of fear. I suppose that means that Maedhros’ plan is going well, for we certainly have the Dark Lieutenant’s attention._

Even as he thought it, he felt that the void had sensed something in the valley unlike itself. The third Nazgûl had remained mounted, and now its hooded head began to turn to and fro. Unseen eyes scanned the valley for anything that was out of place among orcs and smoke. But there was something in the regard that was almost familiar…that reminded him, at however far a remove, of his nephew. _Celebrimbor’s Rings_, he thought, and then he thought to that distant memory of kinship, _I am not here. Nothing is here. There is only stone and smoke._

The third Nazgûl dismounted and turned towards the Balrog. Amrod rose to a crouch in the shelter of the friendly boulder, and ran.

It was early in the morning indeed when Orophin saw the mad Noldo come racing swiftly out of the smoke, and heard him cross the Nimrodel, careless of the noise he made. He signalled to Haldir and Tirniaith at once, and the three of them dropped down from the trees to the path.

The smoke was thinner inside the borders of Lórien, and once he had crossed the stream, Amrod was finally able to remove the cloth that covered his face. As soon as he had done so, he found himself face to face with the guards once more. They surveyed him with surprise in their eyes. "You live after all," said the first, whom he now recognised as the same Haldir who had challenged him upon his last entry.

"I do indeed," he replied, in a hoarse voice unlike his usual clear tones, "and come with news. Let me pass, for it is urgent."

"Are the rumours true?" the second guard asked.

"The orcs are indeed gathered in Dimrill Dale, and they have captains sent by Thauron. More I cannot say. Let me pass! I must bring my news to the Lord and Lady."

At that moment, Galadriel came walking down the path. "The Lord of Lórien is readying our folk for battle even as you advised, cousin," she said, "and I have followed you to hear your news."

"That there is a Balrog, you knew already," Amrod replied, "but I have made sure of it. It is gathering many orcs in the Dimrill Dale, but that also you knew. What you perhaps did not know is that it has been joined by three of these Ringwraiths, mounted on great flying beasts."

"If the _Ulairi_ are here indeed, how is it that you are not pursued? Such as you and I stand out like torches in darkness to their eyes, even in the brightness of day."

"I cannot say for certain, but the rings they wear are of my nephew’s forging as well as the Enemy’s. There is enough memory of my family’s craft in them, I deem, that I could hide myself."

"That is well," Galadriel said, with a note of surprise in her voice. "How long do you deem it will be until we are attacked?"

"Not more than a day. The arrival of the Nazgûl seemed to be a signal to those mustered in the valley. They marched on my heels as I left."

A messenger ran up to Galadriel at this, and, bowing, said, "My Lady, our defences are in place. At Lord Celeborn’s order, all save our sentinels have removed behind the Celebrant."

"Then let us follow them," Galadriel replied. Haldir and Orophin, at a gesture from her, returned to their posts. Amrod followed her as they crossed the Celebrant on a bridge of rope, at a point far nearer to the mountains than when Haldir had led him to Caras Galadhon. A little way beyond the stream, they found Celeborn, giving orders to the captains of his forces, but he fell silent at the sight of Amrod and Galadriel, and the captains made way for them.

"What news from Moria?" Celeborn asked.

"A Balrog leads the forces of the enemy — some thousands of orcs, I should say, though I could get no clear count of them in the fumes which fill the Dimrill Dale — and it is joined by three of Thauron’s Ringwraiths, mounted on fell flying beasts. _They will be here by nightfall,_ if not sooner."

"Well, cousin," Celeborn said, "you have fought these creatures of the Enemy before. What counsel do you give to us?"

Amrod’s face was grim, and he looked very much like Maedhros, as he turned to the assembled captains, and said, "Of the Nazgûl, you already know more than I, and so I will say naught of them. But of the Balrog, I will say this. If none of you who stand here have faced a Balrog before, know that, unless you have the evil chance to face Thauron himself on the field of battle, you will meet no stronger opponent in all your days of war. Their weapons are swords and whips of flame, but that you know already. The whips are the more perilous, for they are long and will reach further than you expect. Come no closer to this Balrog than you must, and do not under any circumstances face it alone. Arrows will do little more than anger it, and trust me" — here he smiled, and for a moment looked almost himself again — "you have no wish to anger it. Your best weapons will be swords, spears, and numbers. If you can afford to wait, do not engage it until I, or your Lord or Lady, has joined you."

"Wisely spoken," said Celeborn. Then, he turned to the captains, who stood by, silently apprehensive. "You know your places. Tell to your men what Lord Amrod has told you. Go, and may the blessing of the Valar go with you."

The elves vanished into the trees, leaving only Celeborn, Galadriel, and Amrod still standing in the small clearing. "And now," Celeborn said, "we wait."

"If I can, I will speak to Maedhros and tell him what has befallen," Amrod said, "but I fear that he will not be able to send us aid, or not soon."

Celeborn and Galadriel nodded to him, and retired to sleep for what was left of the night. After he was alone, Amrod drew out his _palantír_ and peered closely at it. He was fortunate — only a few moments passed before he heard Maedhros’ voice echoing in his ears and saw his brother’s face come into focus in the centre of the small, dark stone. Maedhros must have had his _palantír_ out already. "What news of Lórien, Amrod?"

"Evil news, Maedhros. There is a Valarauka here."

Maedhros was silent, but Amrod knew the expression on his face quite well, and it was one that boded ill. Finally, he said, "I see. What more?"

"Three of Thauron’s new Man-emptinesses, on flying beasts, and some thousands of orcs. They are massing in Dimrill Dale and, if I know aught of the Enemy’s tactics, will attack us tomorrow at nightfall."

"What will you do?"

"Hope to hold the line until the enemy makes a mistake, unless some aid comes. There is little more that we can do, even with Galadriel here. She will, I think, be able to ward off the Nazgûl, and her people will have little trouble with the orcs, but the Balrog will not be so easily halted."

"I have no aid to send at present, I fear. All is not well in Gondor. A sickness of the mind is on the Steward, and I fear that he will try some trickery." Even over the _palantíri_, they had agreed not to speak of the Ring, and so Maedhros did not say what the trickery would be, but given how easily Men were ensnared by rings of power, it was not difficult for Amrod to guess. "He is sound so far as we are both against Thauron, but he is not the kind of man I would wish for in an alliance — strong of will, unbending of mind, and, I deem, long under attacks of the mind from his Enemy. He grows brittle, and I fear what will happen when he breaks."

It was Amrod’s turn to set his face in grim lines. "Then we will do what can be done here. You will send news to the rest of us of this, I take it?"

"I will."

"Then farewell until we meet again, and the blessing of the Valar go with thee."

_"And with thy spirit."_

Amrod restored the _palantír_ to its place in a pouch on his belt, but he did not retire to sleep. All night, he paced the clearing where Celeborn held his centre of command, feeling the edge of his sword and peering towards the mountains, as though his gaze could pierce through trees and smoke to where the creature stood that had slain his father.

All the next day, the defenders of Lórien waited in silence as smoke thickened around their borders. It seemed that, by some power of Galadriel’s, the smoke could not cross the Celebrant, but beyond that river it made a heavy fog, in which glints of metal could be seen moving from time to time. Nothing else, however, could be seen of the enemy until nightfall, when a horrible, shrieking cry rent the air with words of an unclean tongue, and a point of red flame kindled in Dimrill Dale. The scouts retreated behind the Celebrant, and made their report: the enemy was advancing, and the attack was about to begin. By Galadriel’s advice, Celeborn and Amrod joined the defenders of the Celebrant, for it seemed that the enemy’s forces were gathered along its line.

The first wave of the assault came as soon as it was full-dark. Orcs of Moria, driven from behind by great cave-trolls, charged wildly through the trees towards the defenders as the Nazgûl whirled and shrieked overhead. The elves’ first volley felled nearly all of the first rank of orcs, but for every orc that fell, another stepped up to replace it, and though their aim was poor, the arrows they sent into the trees in return found more than one mark. They feared the trolls more than their foes, it seemed, for after halting for that volley they charged forward once more.

It was with a much diminished, but still considerable, force that they reached the Celebrant. The trolls hurled down great rough slabs of stone as bridges, and then leapt across the river ahead of the orcs, who streamed across in their wake. The Nazgûl, however, seemed unable to cross the line of the river, and their screams brought no fear to the defenders’ hearts. 

Now the fighting was hand-to-hand. The trolls wielded great maces, and the elf who was foolish enough not to dodge them did not get a second chance, but the swords of Lórien were keen and its people were swift of foot, and the enemy seemed disconcerted by the retreat of the Nazgûl. By the time the last of the trolls was felled, the orcs that were left were fleeing back across the bridges towards the edge of the forest, though few of them reached it.

Orophin turned to Amrod with a grim smile, as they stood side by side before the corpse of a great mountain troll and cleaned the black blood off of their swords. "This is not as bad as it seemed like to be, Lord," he said.

"This is only the first test of our defences," Amrod replied. "The next will be sterner. There are many more orcs where those came from, and next time there will be more than trolls behind them." Then, turning to the soldiers who had gathered around him, he called, "To the river! Cast down their bridges!"

The stone slabs were too large and heavy to remove altogether, but with the help of ropes the defenders were beginning to draw them the rest of the way over the river when the tramp of feet was heard once more. "Hurry!" Celeborn cried to those manning the ropes, and lent a hand to the nearest group himself.

The second wave must have marched forward almost as soon as it was clear that the first wave had failed, for they were upon the defenders before the bridges could be removed — and these orcs were marching in ranks, not running wildly. The Nazgûl had re-formed into an arrangement like the head of a spear, and flew slowly above the advancing orcs. Behind the first companies, moving though the thick smoke, the deeper darkness and reddish fire of the Balrog could be seen moving to and fro, coming a little closer every time it turned. Where the Balrog went, fire kindled among the trees, and soon the stench of Moria was mingled with the smell of wood smoke. 

Once more, the elves of Lórien let fly their arrows, and once more many orcs fell, but the oncoming lines did not falter. The Nazgûl, shrieking, hurled their mounts over the line of the Celebrant. They were forced back at once by an unseen power, but at the sound of their voices overhead, the folk of Lórien had shifted uneasily, as at the touch of a cold hand. Behind the forward companies of the orc-army, the fires were growing. Amrod and Celeborn went up and down the lines of defenders, encouraging and steadying their soldiers as they fired and received volley after volley of arrows. Though the bridges were still in place, these orcs did not seem as eager to cross the river as their companions had been. 

As their paths crossed, Celeborn said to Amrod, "Perhaps we have taught them a little caution."

"We have indeed," Amrod replied. "We have taught them to wait for the Balrog."

Then there came a shout from the defenders: "Fire! There is fire among the trees!"

The orcs were no longer firing at the defenders, or not at the defenders alone: the points of their arrows were flaming, and they were firing at the trees, and at the golden leaves heaped on the ground. Most of the arrows went out in the green wood, or were stamped out as they lay smouldering on the leaves, but a few caught, and flames were spreading in several places.

"Hold steady," Celeborn called. "Let those behind see to the flames. Let us see to the orcs!"

It was a timely warning, for, seeing the defenders distracted by the spreading fires, the orcs had suddenly rushed forward. Their frontmost ranks had all but gained the bridges before another volley reached them and filled the Celebrant with floating corpses, and behind that rank was another, and another, and ever the Balrog and the roaring fires grew closer. 

Soon, nigh all the woods on the far side of Celebrant were ablaze, and the defenders cursed the orcs under their breath, for those that carried torches in the Balrog’s wake and spread the fires it set were out of bowshot even for the strong bows of Lórien.

For the young Elves who had not seen true pitched battle before, the night seemed to have become a hideous dream. Fire danced, and ash fell, and orcs sprang out of the falling ash until it seemed as though they were spawned from the fire, and no matter how many orcs fell pierced with arrows or struck down with swords, there was always another, and another, and another. The Nazgûl wheeled overhead, and though they could not yet cross the line of the Celebrant for long, their beasts could drop flaming logs on the defenders’ heads, and they could drive the orcs forward from behind, and their screams sounded like the voices of friends in sore torment. But the line held, and the Balrog did not yet come forward, though now and again a flaming whip flashed and cracked over the ranks of the orcs.

Morning broke, and the orcs withdrew, the crossings still unwon. The defenders looked at one another with weary, ash-stained faces, and spoke of their relief in voices made hoarse by the smoke. Healers moved through the ranks, tending to the wounded and bearing away the dead. Archers searched the ground for spent arrows to replenish their empty quivers. Celeborn leaned on his long spear, and looked out over the Celebrant that now ran red and hideous, choked with the slain, at a ravaged land. Where once the fragrant branches of _mellyrn_ had cast gentle gold-tinged shade, the sun’s rays showed smouldering and blackened stumps, heaps of grey ash, and still-smouldering coals. Smoke hung over all the land like a pall.

Word came in from the captains of the other divisions: though the assault had been heaviest and most constant on the line of the Celebrant, orcs had tested the lines all round Lórien at one point or another during the night, whether it was a sudden assault from the dark, or a fire set by stealth between outposts. When he heard that, Amrod, who had come up from where he and a handful of guardsmen who seemed to have appointed themselves his company were dragging the bridges away from the river, scowled. 

"What does your wrath mean, cousin?" Celeborn asked.

"I do not like that report," Amrod replied. "Why should the enemy concentrate his forces on the line which is easiest for us to defend, and do nothing but probe our lines elsewhere?"

"I had thought of that also, but then orcs are not known for their wisdom."

"We are not dealing with orcs," Amrod said. "There is some other plan at work here. We should strengthen the defences along the western edge of the forest. It would have been wiser for our foes to attack there rather than along the Celebrant last night. If they did not do so, it was because they were ordered not to. Tonight I do not think that we will be so fortunate."

"Spoken as a wise commander, but we have no forces with which to do so. We were never as numerous as the folk of Thranduil, and our numbers have dwindled with the passing years. Will you go, cousin, and take the defences there in charge?"

"I will go," Amrod answered, "but I cannot stop a host."

Galadriel joined them then, and though there was no mark of ash or smoke upon her, there was a weariness in her bearing that spoke of labours no less than theirs. "No more can I," she said. "The Nazgûl I can hold, and that easily, and the _yrch_ we can hold together, but our true foe is older and stronger than either."

Celeborn met her eyes, and some message seemed to pass between them without words. Celeborn sighed, and then turned to an elf who stood near. "Beraith," he said, "send word to Caras Galadhon. Let the city guard and all those who are not warriors prepare to retreat. Let any of the wounded who cannot fight go with them."

"Whither shall they go, my lord?"

Celeborn looked undecided, but Galadriel said, "To Rohan. Mirkwood is held by the enemy in the parts nearest us. We must trust that our cousin Maglor has prospered in his errand."

Beraith bowed and strode away towards the city. "How much time do we have?" Amrod asked.

"Until nightfall, I think," Galadriel replied. "Our foe did not come forward last night, and I do not think that it will do so now, when it would needs come alone."

"Then I will order that all save the sentries take their rest," Celeborn said. "We must be ready come nightfall."

The rest of the day was grim and silent. The people of Lórien were a steadfast folk, and made no complaint even when they were ordered to retreat, though the wounded soldiers were not pleased to find themselves out of the fight, forced to leave their companions behind. At noon, the city guard and the noncombatants found a gap in the enemy’s lines near the place where Celebrant flowed into Anduin, and, clad in their shifting grey-green cloaks, made their escape before their foes were aware of them. In the sunlight, the orcs cowered in the shade of stones and tents, and such pursuit as was made was half-hearted. If the Balrog learned of their flight, it seemed that it did not care to send after them.

The soldiers who remained checked their bowstrings, repaired their armour, and sharpened their blades, every now and again sparing a glance for the red-and-black tents that had been set up among the stones and blackened stumps. Once more, there was nothing to be done but wait.

As night drew nearer and the sun slowly sank towards the mountains, tensions rose among the defenders. Before it was even fully dark, harsh cries sounded from the smouldering wasteland that lay over the Celebrant, and the defenders braced themselves for an attack once more, led by Celeborn, while Amrod waited still and silent among the soldiers on the westward edge of the wood and listened to the rumour of battle. The Nazgûl, at least, were silent, but the shouts of orcs and elves, the twang of bowstrings, the cries of the wounded, and the clash of steel all resounded through the wood. 

Then, all at once, out of the smoke and boulders there came a smoking boulder that moved, and as it moved, it burst into fresh fire that reflected dully off the armour of the orcs that surrounded it. Silently they moved through the darkness, perhaps hoping to remain unobserved for a little longer. If they hoped so, they soon learned that their hope was vain, for a rain of arrows met the oncoming orcs, felling many. The Balrog, however, strode on undeterred. Arrows that struck it simply caught fire and withered away into ash.

As the line of advancing orcs met the line of defenders, Amrod strode forward to meet the Balrog. Its mane of flames flared up and cast a dire light over the scene, and in a voice that boomed and echoed as though an avalanche had found voice, it said, "Son of Fëanor. So you have come to meet your father’s doom."

Amrod met its fiery gaze, fire kindling in his own eyes, and the Balrog’s gaze fell, for the light of the Trees that shone in the eyes of the Calaquendi was pain to all of Morgoth’s servants, even those so mighty as this one. "No," he said in a ringing voice, "I have come to avenge him."

The Balrog’s laughter was like sliding stone, as it raised its sword of white-hot flame and struck. Amrod sprang aside, and the sword carved a great smoking rent in the earth. As Amrod moved, he drew his own blade, and slashed at the Balrog’s right arm as it drew its sword out of the ground. It roared, though whether in rage or pain Amrod was not sure, but its grasp on its sword faltered for a moment. He followed up his slash with another, but it never came home, for a whisper in the air warned him that the Balrog had drawn out its whip in its left hand. Amrod hurled himself forward into a roll, and the whip cracked in the air over his head. A cry from behind him seemed to indicate that the whip had found another mark than the one for which it was meant, but Amrod had no time to think on that: as he rolled forward, he stabbed at the Balrog’s foot, which put its attention squarely back on him. Though his blow had once more come home, it placed him squarely beside its other foot, and he found himself on the receiving end of a vicious kick that sent him flying backwards. A tree halted his flight, and he picked himself up off the ground, panting.

With Amrod no longer blocking its way for the moment, the Balrog strode forward into the lines of the defenders. The first line of archers did not even have time to draw their swords before they met the Balrog’s flaming blade. Amrod, limping, raced forward to engage it once more. This time, as it swung at him, he parried its blow squarely, and its sword _flew up in molten fragments,_ for its cursed steel was no match for a blade tempered by Curufin Fëanorion himself. The sheer force of the blow, however, was enough to make him stagger backwards, his sword-arm numb to the elbow.

Fortunately for Amrod, part of Maedhros’ way of dealing with his injuries in the First Age had been a savage insistence that all his brothers learn to fight with either hand. Amrod ducked as the Balrog’s whip swung over his head again, and as he changed his sword to his left hand, he saw that the creature had overshot its aim and wrapped its whip around a tree, which, wrapped in fire, was already beginning to burn. He charged in again before the Balrog could free its whip, and stabbed upwards as high as he could reach. His sword buried itself in the Balrog’s chest, and it let out a bellow of pain that made the trees bend and the stones echo. He had wrenched his sword free, ready to strike again, when a cracking noise from behind him made him glance backwards. The moment he spent staring in shock at the uprooted tree that was flying towards his head nearly killed him. _I suppose it did_ not _overshoot its aim,_ said a small, pensive part of his mind even as, reacting on instinct, he sprang to the side again. 

Amrod watched in shock as the Balrog spun the now-flaming tree in midair so that it was flying towards the lines of archers. Those who could not get out of the way were crushed, and the orcs rushed forwards towards the new second breach in the lines, even as the Balrog’s burning grasp closed around Amrod’s right arm. Amrod stabbed savagely at its elbow, and the Balrog in its pain flung him wide rather than hurling him down and trampling on him as it had doubtless intended. He landed in the middle of a division of archers, and painfully pulled himself to his feet again, in time to see more orcs and yet more orcs swarm up from the rocks, and the Balrog, limping, begin to move forward once more, its whip carving swathes out of the ranks of the elves. Instinctively, Amrod tried to move his sword back to his right hand, for, Maedhros or no Maedhros, he still preferred to fight right-handed, but he hissed in startled pain when he tried to move his arm. Looking down, he saw that the Balrog’s hand had left a deep and ugly burn that nearly reached the bone. His arm was useless.

"My lord, look out," someone shouted, and then the orcs were on them and he had no more time to think or to bother about his arm. He slashed and parried left-handed, and the orcs fell back before his wrath, but try as he might to move back to where the Balrog was wreaking havoc on his lines and spreading fire among the trees, there were always more orcs and more fires in his way, and there was nowhere to go but back, step by step, helping the soldiers behind him as best he could. Then he caught a glimpse of a familiar face in the mêlée, and lunged towards it, laying about him with his sword.

Cûlegyr, captain of the westward defences, had spent all his arrows long ago, and was now fighting with a sword he had found lying on the ground after his own had shattered on the Balrog’s arm. He was was all but certain that he would be in Mandos before the night was over when he caught a glimpse through the smoke of flame-red hair and a flash of fiery light reflected off of steel, and Amrod was standing back-to-back with him. Together they drove the orcs away from a small knot of wounded elves who had taken shelter behind their captain, and were now joined by the soldiers who had attached themselves to Amrod. As they leaned on their swords and rested for a moment, Amrod turned to Cûlegyr, and said, "Captain, we cannot hold here. You must send word to Celeborn. The Balrog is coming, and he will be caught between the hammer and the anvil. We must go."

As the orcs closed in again, Cûlegyr shouted over his shoulder to an elf he recognised, "Pethhenid, you must carry word to the Lord of Lórien that the defences are breached! Hurry!" Pethhenid gave a quick nod and, slashing at an orc that barred his way, raced away to the south.

Celeborn and his forces had been busy all night, but the assault was less terrible than it had been the previous day: there was no sign of the Nazgûl or the Balrog, only orcs and trolls, and there was nothing left to burn on the far side of the Celebrant, which meant that the air was more or less clear. The greatest threat were the enemy’s flaming arrows, which ever and anon set fire to the leaves and had to be stamped out before they spread. The orcs had been driven back for the moment, and he was moving along the ranks, passing out arrows, when a scorched and limping Elf, his quiver empty and a sheathless, black-stained knife thrust through his belt, ran up and bowed to him. "I bring news from the western defences, lord," he said.

"Speak," Celeborn answered. "How goes the battle?"

"The western defences are overrun, lord. The Balrog is there, with many orcs. It forced us back, and now it is firing all the woods behind us. Lord Amrod and Captain Cûlegyr are covering our retreat as best they can, but Lord Amrod is wounded. We have only escaped thus far because he wounded the Balrog in return. We must fall back to Caras Galadhon."

In that moment, from behind his lines, Celeborn heard a sound that he would have been glad never to hear again: the scream of a Nazgûl. At the same time, Galadriel’s voice echoed in his mind: _The Balrog has overthrown my shields. I cannot hold back both it and the Nazgûl. Word has reached me that orcs have come to Caras Galadhon, and the Nazgûl fly with them. The Nazgûl have fired the city and our people are driven back._

Celeborn bent his head for a moment, then turned to Pethhenid. "There will be no retreat to Caras Galadhon. We must seek the river."

Then he lifted up his voice, and shouted to his men, "Retreat! We will wait for Lord Amrod’s forces to rendezvous with us, and then take to the river! Get the wounded to boats, and make for the shores of Rohan! Hurry!"

There was a flurry of motion as healers helped the wounded to the boats, and all those who could be spared from the defence went with them to clear a path through the orcs. Those who remained behind did not have to hold long: the survivors of the western line were as hard on their messenger’s heels as the orcs and the fire were on theirs. As soon as the main body of the retreat arrived, Celeborn began a slow, ordered retreat of his own, moving towards the wharfs where Silverlode met Anduin, and fighting a rearguard action to relieve the exhausted remnants of the western defenders. Amrod and Cûlegyr were the last to join him, battered, burnt and bleeding, ever and anon darting forward to slow down any orcs who came too close, but join him they did. Galadriel had already taken the defenders of Caras Galadhon to the river.

Lothlórien had fallen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So my first major battle is written, phew! Let me know how it worked, please - comments are always encouraging, and constructive criticism is more than welcome. (Also, please tell me if you find typos. This is a long chapter and it's very possible that I missed something.)
> 
> Maedhros' response to Amrod's blessing is taken from the Book of Common Prayer. It seemed appropriate.
> 
> Oh, and for those of you wondering what happened to Elladan & Elrohir, they were at Caras Galadhon with Galadriel, assisting with the city defences. I forgot to mention them, though.


	16. The Forest Kingdom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas, Amras, Gimli, Glóin, and Caranthir arrive in Mirkwood with Grimbeorn. Thranduil finds himself in possession of quite a large number of guests he did not want.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is more or less contemporary with the beginning of the assault on Lórien.
> 
> Early update this week to make up for last week's non-update.

For all the warlike accoutrements of Grimbeorn and his folk, the journey into Mirkwood was a quiet one, for the most part. Legolas and Grimbeorn between them knew the forest well enough to warn their companions away from any dangers, and they had packed enough supplies to last them for some weeks with care. Their first real check was the black river. Both Legolas and Grimbeorn knew of it, but Grimbeorn had declared with a grin that they would "cross that river when they came to it," and, as there was really nothing else to be done other than bring a boat — which they did not have — Legolas had agreed.

Now their column of fifty had halted on the river’s brink, looking across the black water to the shadowed bank on the other side. "Well, this is a pretty kettle of fish," Gimli muttered. "No boat, no bridge, and no way around!"

"He has a point," Caranthir said mildly. "Legolas, how did you plan to cross this river?"

Legolas was silent, peering across the river as though looking for something on the other side. "If there is no way over, we must make one, then," Grimbeorn said.

Legolas turned back smiled at them all. "No need," he said. "We are over the borders of my father’s kingdom now. This river is one of the best places to catch any intruders. At least one patrol passes by it every day, and one is nearing us now."

He turned away from them again and called out something in Sindarin, and a number of elves in green and brown appeared from the trees.

The conversation that followed was unintelligible to Grimbeorn and the dwarves, though Caranthir and Amras seemed to be able to follow it. The wood-elves did not seem to be entirely pleased with whatever was happening, but in the end the elves disappeared again, and Legolas, turning back to the company, said, "They have gone to fetch boats."

It was not long before the elves returned, paddling down the river in three small boats of dark wood, and moored them on the side of the river nearer the travellers. Then they climbed gracefully out of the boats, and stood in something that was almost a military formation, facing the travellers. The one who seemed to be in charge stepped forward and spoke urgently to Legolas.

"What is he saying?" Gimli asked of Caranthir in a low voice.

"I think he is some kind of captain," Caranthir whispered back. "He says that he wishes to know why there is an armed party within the Forest Kingdom’s boundaries, where they are going, and what they are doing. Also they do not love either Dwarves or strangers. We are all one of the two, and some of us are both. Legolas orders them to carry us across the stream regardless, but the captain is arguing with him."

Legolas barked something short and sharp at the captain, and that seemed to end the argument. With no very good grace, the patrol stood aside from the boats. Legolas beckoned to his companions. Gimli and Glóin hung back a little, and Amras and Caranthir stood as though uncertain who should go first. Grimbeorn promptly took charge. "All right, lads!" he shouted, "Four to a boat, and send one man back once you’re on the other side! Go on now, sort yourselves!"

The column of men neatly divided itself into groups of four, and as the two Elves and two Dwarves made a neat group of four themselves, they took a boat as well, with Amras at the paddles. Crossing took some time, and the Men made a deal of splashing and bumping, but for all that they were orderly enough, and, which was most important, nobody fell in. Legolas insisted on waiting until his companions were all over before crossing himself with the patrol of wood-elves, and Gimli wondered if he was afraid that some of them might have been left behind if he had not waited. As he disembarked, he turned back to the captain and resumed their conversation. The rest of the wood-elves eyed the Dwarves and Men suspiciously. "That’s our cue to get moving, I suppose," Glóin said, hefting his pack, which was still heavy, though lighter than it had been when they left the village of the Beornings. He did not remember the wood-elves of Mirkwood kindly, and though he was prepared to make an exception in the case of Legolas, that did not mean that he had any wish to stay in the presence of his former captors.

"Did Legolas not say that the end of this road was _doubtful and little used_, and the safest way was by his father’s halls?" Caranthir replied.

"Aye, he did, but to judge by the reception he’s getting, we wouldn’t be leaving that place anytime soon. I’ve been imprisoned there before, and trust me, unless you have an invisible burglar on your hands, escaping isn’t easy."

"You came this way before?" Amras asked. "Why then did Grimbeorn not recognise you? And how did you escape?"

"That was years ago, before Grimbeorn’s time. We knew his father. There was…a misunderstanding with the elves, to put things lightly. I think that they, and we, will all be happiest if we don’t stop there again."

The captain must have had keen ears, for he turned to them then, and said, "Travellers, I think there has been a misunderstanding."

"Oh?" Glóin said, bristling.

"The latter end of the Forest Road has not been used for fifty years and more. It is doubtless now impassible. Your only road lies through our kingdom, as it would be in any case, for we do not love strangers who come to us unbidden in these dark times."

"Don’t I know it," Glóin grumbled.

The captain glowered at him. "You would be no more friendly to our people if they came unbidden to your halls, Master Dwarf!"

Legolas, fortunately, interjected before something truly dangerous could be said. "Deryn," he said, "these folk are my guests, and they come on an urgent errand from Lord Elrond. The Dwarves do not seek to remain in our kingdom, but only to pass safely towards the Lonely Mountain. There is no need for incivility."

Deryn restrained his glower and fell silent. Legolas turned to Glóin, and said, "What Deryn said of the end of the forest road was true. If you tried to pass that way, you would, I fear, be lost forever. At best, you would be greatly delayed. The only way is through my father’s kingdom."

"And we won’t just be buried in the dungeons again?"

"I will see to it that you are not," Legolas replied, with steel in his voice.

There was, in the end, little choice, and the four travellers, together with Grimbeorn’s column of men, followed Deryn and his company into the shadows of Mirkwood. Soon they were out of any sight of the path, and none of the strangers save Amras could have been certain of finding their way back to it.

It was some days’ journey to Thranduil’s hall in the forest, and the journey was not a terribly comfortable one. Deryn and the other elves of his command, who declined to introduce themselves or to speak anything except Sindarin, held themselves apart from the travellers, and spoke even to Legolas only when he spoke to them. Amras and Caranthir had not introduced themselves, but the wood-elves either knew more about their silent, hooded guests than they let on, or avoided them by instinct. Gimli and Glóin disliked being treated as though they were carriers of some disease, and refused in their turn to speak to anyone except the members of their party. Legolas and Amras did their best to make conversation over their nightly campfires, but it always died down quickly. Only Caranthir, along with Grimbeorn and his men, seemed more or less unaffected by the chilly atmosphere, but even they breathed a sigh of relief when Deryn announced, "The hall of King Thranduil." Their relief abated somewhat when he added, "The Men cannot all come in. Let them choose one or two of their number to speak to the king. The rest will remain here."

Grimbeorn bristled, but Legolas said, softly, "Patience, please, my friend. My people are slow to accept many strangers in their midst, much like yours."

Grimbeorn subsided, and signalled his second-in-command, Álmgeirr, to remain behind with the men. Álmgeirr looked less than pleased, but bowed his head in acquiescence, and Deryn led Grimbeorn, Legolas, Gimli, Glóin, Caranthir and Amras over the rough stone bridge and through the gates that led into Thranduil’s dolven halls. The gates closed behind them with an ominous clang, and Glóin looked uneasy. He remembered the magic of those gates all too well.

The stone passage was roughly carven, and the dwarves muttered under their breath about "typical Elvish workmanship" until Caranthir trod on Gimli’s foot, and then they were silent. Rough as it was, however, the ceilings were high, and the torches and shafts which lit the passage at regular intervals gave enough light and air to make it a not unpleasant place. It was not long before the walls opened out and they found themselves in a large hall, its roof supported by pillars. At the end of the hall, seated on a throne of carven wood, was Thranduil, King of Northern Mirkwood, crowned with evergreen. With a wave of his hand, he dismissed the guards, who bowed and disappeared. Then he rose from the throne and strode to meet them with a smile. "Legolas! Well returned, my son. What news do you bring from Rivendell?"

"Great deeds are afoot, Father. The Enemy’s Ring has been found, and Lord Elrond hopes that by destroying it we may destroy him."

Thranduil frowned. "The army does not exist that could force a passage to Amon Amarth through all the forces of Mordor. We do not even know if we have the forces to resist his attack when it comes."

"No such army exists, true, but we do not need to force a passage to Mount Doom. We only need to draw Sauron’s eye away from his own land long enough for a small party to make the journey, and for that we do have enough forces, if all the free peoples of Middle-Earth will stand together as they once did."

"A good plan, but it does not explain why you travel with dwarves and a strange Man, or why your companions remain hooded and silent."

"As for the dwarves, they travel to the Lonely Mountain by the swiftest route, for they also sought Lord Elrond’s wisdom. They hope, now, to join in this new alliance."

Thranduil inclined his head. "Then they are welcome to pass on, so long as they mean no harm to this kingdom. But what of the others?"

Glóin looked relieved at this, but Legolas’ face grew apprehensive. "The Man is Grimbeorn, Lord of the Beornings, who wishes to aid us against Sauron."

Thranduil looked somewhat skeptical, but said, "All those who offer aid against the Enemy in good faith are welcome here."

Legolas continued, "For the other two: at Lord Elrond’s council, we discovered that the Istari are not the only messengers whom the Valar saw fit to send to Middle-Earth for our aid." He paused, as though searching for words.

"Well?"

"Glorfindel of Gondolin was sent back to Middle-Earth with the Istari, as you know. Some time later, but before the council, the Sons of Fëanor arrived at Cirdan’s Havens in a ship of Valinor." Thranduil had paled, and was staring at his son in disbelief. "They made their way to Rivendell with all speed, and arrived part way through the council," Legolas continued. "Lord Maedhros hopes to lead all those who are willing to distract Sauron in an assault while a small party carries the Ring to Mount Doom. If all goes well, the Ring will be destroyed before Sauron knows it has crossed his borders."

Thranduil rose to his feet in wrath. "And so you have brought them here?"

Before Legolas could say anything to explain, Thranduil’s roar of "Guards!" had brought several Elves running into the throne room from various directions. "Take them to the deepest of our dungeons! Search them for weapons, and then chain them! No kinslayer shall walk free in my kingdom."

"Father, even if you must…"

"Silence! You bring kinslayers to my halls in the guise of diplomacy, and then expect me to heed your words?"

"Here, now, there’s no call for this!" Glóin protested as two of the guards roughly relieved him of his axe and seized his arms. 

Grimbeorn bared his teeth and snarled angrily at the two nearest guards — it was a surprisingly bear-like noise — who hovered uncomfortably just out of arm’s reach and made brief darts at his wrists as though they wished to bind him but feared to come close enough to do so.

"I expect you to blame those who deserve the blame!" Legolas retorted. "The Dwarves and the Man had nothing to do with this."

Thranduil scowled and turned back to the guards. "Let the Man be; lead him outside and let him go where he will. Guide him to the path if he wishes to leave. I will not have it said that we leave strangers to starve in the forest." (This with a scowl at the dwarves.) "The Dwarves go to the dungeons also, but not so far down. If I find that they have naught to do with these Ódhellim kinslayers, I shall release them."

Amras calmly did off his hood, and laid down his bow and sword upon the floor. By their faces, the guards feared him and his scowling brother as much or more than Grimbeorn, but when he offered them his wrists rather than make resistance, they bound his hands and led him away. Caranthir looked darkly at Thranduil, but at a nod from Amras, he set down his battleaxe and likewise submitted to the guards’ ministrations. Gimli and Glóin, unbound but weaponless and muttering wrathfully, were led away as well.

"Father, please, you must listen," were the last words that the prisoners caught from Legolas, as the doors to the throne room swung shut.

Near the doors of the dungeons, Gimli and Glóin were shown to a cell, not gently but not over-roughly either. Caranthir and Amras, however, were marched down and down until the walls of the cave were damp and the air smelled of earth and the light of the shafts was dim. The bars of their cells were rusted with the damp air, but set firmly in the rock for all that. They were shoved against the walls of separate cells, and their ankles chained to the wall, and then the guards left them be. The guards had strewn clean straw on the floor, but there little else in the cells save old chains and rough-hewn stone slabs that seemed meant to serve as beds. "As our Dwarven friends would say," Caranthir groused, "this is a pretty kettle of fish, brother."

"We must have patience and trust Legolas." Amras sounded weary as he said this, and also rather as though he doubted his own words.

"You sound like Maedhros."

"And you sound like a mortal who has been woken for the dawn watch."

"Hmph."

Meanwhile, Legolas was pleading his case to his father. "Sauron is coming. You know this, Adar. You have known it for centuries. Have our people not taken the brunt of the Necromancer’s assaults since before the White Council so much as knew who he was? Did not we pay with our blood for his defeat in the Second Age? We need their help, Adar. We cannot stand alone."

"Need the help of kinslayers? Their swords run red with the blood of our people, not black with that of orcs. They fight for Morgoth as surely as does Sauron. We trusted them once before, and they repaid us in blood twice over! I will not trust them again."

"The Valar sent them back, Adar! They would not have done so if they had not repented! Have not the Istari helped us?"

"Oh, yes, the White Council has told us what we know already, and driven the Enemy from his stronghold here to a stronger one in Mordor! Great help they have brought. Mirkwood has stood alone all these centuries. We do not need the aid of Ódhellim to stand against the Enemy now. The full force of his armies will be divided. If he wishes to subdue Middle-Earth, he must strike many places at once. We will strike at those he sends here from the trees and wait, as we have always done, and if needs must we will follow the River to the sea."

"And if they cut off our retreat? What then? Sauron grows stronger by the day! None who fights him can stand alone, no, not even Mirkwood. We did not stand alone in the days of the Last Alliance, when Sauron was last conquered. We cannot afford to do so now, and we cannot afford to care who makes the plan, so long as the Enemy is defeated. They come to help us, Adar. They risk their own lives, so newly regained, to help us. Will you not listen?"

Before Thranduil could answer, there was a sound of running feet outside, and a messenger burst through the doors, panting and covered in dust. "My King! Orcs are coming, by many thousands! All Dol Guldor must be emptied! All that lives in the forest flees before them, and a shadow of terror rides with them and over them."

"Father, is this not the best test we could have of our allies? Let them fight with us and prove themselves. We need every sword we can get."

Thranduil turned to him with something almost like a snarl. "Let them lead the van, then, if they wish to aid us! Take the keys and free them if you must."

Legolas needed no more permission, but raced to the dungeons at once. Gimli and Glóin were _inclined to grumble_ at him when he arrived, but the news of thousands of Orcs on the move soon silenced them.

When he finally found Amras and Caranthir, Legolas seemed rather startled. "These cells have not been used for centuries," he said.

"Well, I’ve no wish to use them any longer," Caranthir replied.

Legolas swiftly unfastened both doors and chains, and led them into the corridor. "How did you persuade your father to let us out so swiftly?" Amras asked.

"I did not persuade him," Legolas said grimly. "The Enemy did. All Dol Guldor marches on our lands. He consented to let you free if you would fight with us. He wishes you to lead the vanguard of our forces."

Amras nodded solemnly. "I will do what we must, but cannot Caranthir and the dwarves go on their way? I do not think that the Enemy will long leave Erebor in peace if he marches on your realm, and I would see them warned."

Legolas shook his head. "I do not think my father would allow your brother to leave, even if it were possible. In any case, I fear that the Enemy will see to it that no messengers leave our realm."

"Well," Caranthir said, "Grimbeorn did want a chance at some orcs."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Thranduil comes off as rather unpleasant in this chapter, but, in fairness to him, he's the son of Oropher of Doriath and was not expecting the worst villains of his childhood bedtime stories to show up on his doorstep and claim they were there to help.


	17. In Fangorn Forest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Fangorn, Curufin, Frodo, and Sam gather news and plan their next move while the Ents consider some momentous news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am back again. Sorry about the late update, again. Hopefully the next few chapters will be worth the wait!

When Curufin woke, he thought, for a moment, that he was still in Rivendell, for he was sleeping in a bed. _I have had a strangely vivid dream,_ he thought. _A dream of foresight? Surely not. That was always Findarato’s gift, not mine_. Then, as he turned his mind to his surroundings, _Where am I? This is not Rivendell. I am in a wood, and in the open, if the smell of the air means aught._ Curufin opened his eyes, and could see the open sky through a filigree of leaves and branches. He tried to sit up and look more closely at his surroundings, but drew in his breath sharply when his wounded shoulder protested. _The arrow, at least, was not a dream, then,_ he thought, _so where am I? More importantly, where are Frodo and Sam?_ Gripped with a sudden urgency at the thought of the hobbits, he attempted to sit up again, moving with more caution, and slowly he managed it. Taking in his surroundings, he found that he was lying on a bed of heather in a sort of shallow cave at the end of a long clearing fringed with orderly rows of trees. Beyond the end of the clearing, which shone like a road of silvered emerald in the moonlight, were more trees, and yet more. As far as he could see, the forest might go on forever. More importantly, however, the hobbits were walking side by side about half-way down the clearing, and looked quite unharmed.

"Frodo? Sam?" he called.

Frodo and Sam had, by Treebeard’s instructions, remained within the confines of his "ent-house" since they had arrived the evening of the previous day. Curufin had not woken since they had met Treebeard. Treebeard did not, he said, know much of the wounds or illnesses of Elves and Men, and so they had simply let him rest, trusting to the strength that had carried him so far to bring him through alive. Treebeard had gone away that morning, warning them not to stray from the clearing.

On the strange journey to the ent-house, which had seemed all but unreal at the time and only grew stranger in memory, the trees had made curious sounds as Treebeard walked by. Some had lifted up their branches to give him freer passage. Some had dropped twigs or creepers on the hobbits and the unconscious Curufin. Both hobbits had been uncomfortably reminded of the Old Forest’s unfriendly trees and Old Man Willow’s terrible, soft singing. As a result, neither of them was loath to stay in the open. Besides, there was no need for them to venture into the forest. There was water to be had from the stream that flowed through the ent-house, and, though the drinks Treebeard had offered them were not exactly satisfying, to the hobbit mind, they were sustaining enough, and had served them for a kind of drinkable supper. 

They had grown restless, however, sitting by Curufin’s bedside, and had taken to pacing the clearing after Treebeard left, speaking softly of the strange events of the past three days. "Still no sign of Gandalf," Frodo said worriedly, "and we’ve been waiting here for a whole day — more than that, actually, if you count the time since we came to the forest. He should have had time to catch up to us by now."

"He turned up all right last time," Sam replied stoutly, though his voice belied his words.

"Somehow I don’t think the eagles are going to turn up to help him again," Frodo said. "And I’m not sure that Saruman would be content with merely taking him prisoner after the way he escaped last time."

"Well, Treebeard carried us I don’t know how far yesterday, and it wasn’t in the same direction we’ve been going. Maybe Gandalf just can’t find us."

"I hope that’s all it is."

Any further speculation was halted when they heard Curufin’s voice calling out, "Frodo? Sam?" from the end of the clearing. 

"There’s some good news at least," Sam said, as they turned and walked swiftly back towards Treebeard’s cave.

"How are you feeling?" Sam asked Curufin, as soon as they were near enough to talk without shouting.

Curufin considered. "Better than I was."

"How much do you remember?" Frodo asked.

"The last thing I recall is our meeting with Fangorn. I have no memory of how I came to this place."

"I doubt you’ll be remembering that part," Sam said. "You’ve been asleep for over a day, and he carried you the whole way here."

"We were not followed?"

"Not by orcs as far as we could see, and Treebeard says the trees haven’t seen anyone either. Not that I thought trees could see, but he seems to trust them."

"What worries me," Frodo put in, "is that Gandalf doesn’t seem to have followed us either. I thought he would have been here by now."

Curufin shrugged carefully. "How far did Treebeard carry us yesterday?"

"I’m not sure," Frodo replied. "He said it was some thousand ent-strides, but I don’t know how far that is."

"Perhaps that is further than Mithrandir could come in one day. In any case, there is little we can do save wait…or perhaps…"

Curufin let his sentence drift off as though an idea had come to him. He made an abortive motion with his right hand, winced, and then awkwardly brought his left hand around to his right side to feel in a pouch he carried on his belt. With a mild air of triumph, he brought out what looked like a smallish, round, black stone. "This is not to be used save in grave danger, but I would say an assault by orcs and a missing wizard is grave enough."

"Then I suppose it is not, as it seems to be, nothing more than a black stone."

"Oh, it is certainly a black stone," Curufin replied, with a slight upward turn of his lips, "but it is also a good deal more. This is a _palantír,_ a seeing-stone, and it allows he who wields it to speak to any other who bears one also. More to our purpose, it allows one to see certain things from afar. Mithrandir may have shrouded his footsteps, or he may not, but I will, at the least, be able to learn what traces he left at the place of our battle."

He took the stone more firmly in his good hand, and gazed intently into it. Strange lights flickered in its depths and illuminated the depths of his dark eyes, calling into life the light of the Trees that was usually so deeply buried there. As they watched, his face darkened from its look of concentration into a scowl, and then into a wince, as though he was in pain. Then, with a motion as of one snapping a cord, he drew his eyes away from the _palantír,_ and gazed away into the distance for a moment, breathing deeply as though he had just come from some hard labour. Before either of the hobbits could ask what had happened, however, he turned back to it, looking intent once more, and began speaking quickly in Quenya. Frodo caught a few words here and there, but not enough to make out what the conversation was about, and Curufin’s curious substitution of _th_ where ordinarily a word would have had an _s_ made it more difficult.

At last, with an air of finality, Curufin returned the _palantír_ to its pouch, more gracefully this time, and turned to face the hobbits. "I could find no sign either of Mithrandir or Curunir on our battlefield, though all the land about was blasted as though with fire," he said. "Indeed, smoke still rises from the tree-stumps, and the Isen steams. I do not know what has become of either of them, and I cannot look too closely, for there is another mind watching Isengard, and it is not a friendly one. Nevertheless, I was able to speak with Maedhros, for he and I together are strong enough to ward off any unfriendly watchers. He knows now what has become of us, and he tells me that all is not well in Gondor. I do not think we can expect any aid from that quarter. If things are as ill as he fears, it may be only by good fortune that we escape hindrance. The Steward knows of our errand, and Maedhros fears that he may try to take the Ring if it comes within his reach. We must trust to Celegorm, now, and hope that he will be able to find a way through the Enemy’s defences even without the help of Gondor’s Rangers. And we should not remain here over-long. The sooner we are away from Isengard and out of Gondor’s reach, the safer our errand will be."

"Are you all right to travel, sir?" Sam asked.

Curufin frowned. "I shall have to be," he replied. "Perhaps, if we are fortunate, Fangorn can be prevailed upon to bear us some way along our road. We must, I think, wait for his return ere we leave, in any case. This forest does not love strangers, and we would not be safe in it without his permission."

"Yes, he said much the same thing to us," Frodo said pensively. "You needn’t worry about us," he added. "The last time we had to deal with trees that could move, I very nearly wound up drowned, and Merry and Pippin were, well, I suppose you could say _eaten,_ though they weren’t really hurt in the end. If it hadn’t been for Tom Bombadil, I don’t know what would have happened to us, but I think our quest would most likely have ended then and there. All of which is to say, we’ll have no trouble obeying Treebeard’s warnings."

"Tom Bombadil? Who, or what, is he?"

"Even Lord Elrond could not say for certain. He called him Iarwain Ben-Adar, but could tell us nothing more, save that he has lived in these lands since the first age of the world."

"Eldest and Fatherless," Curufin said thoughtfully. "And he freed you from a tree?"

"That he did," Sam replied. "It was singing about sleep, and it got Master Frodo, and Master Merry and Master Pippin too. I was lucky to escape. Then when I called for help, he showed up out of the blue, and told the tree to let them go, and it did!"

"He saved us more than once," Frodo added. "We owe him our lives several times over, as like as not. He is a strange creature."

"That he is," Sam agreed, and covered a yawn.

Though he did his best to hide it, Frodo and Curufin both took it as a signal that it was time to stop talking and go to sleep. For all that Curufin had slept the day through, he was quite ready to sleep again, and knew that he might soon need to be well-rested. After a draught of whatever it was that Treebeard kept in his stone jars, all three of them went to bed, and, despite the strange groaning, booming noises which had begun to come out of the forest, they slept soundly, for even Curufin trusted that Treebeard would see to their safety.

Meanwhile, late as it was, Entmoot had begun, for the Ents had business to discuss the like of which had not worried them in an age and a half. Saruman, their nearest neighbour, had sent orcs into their woods and set axes to their trees, and pursued an Elf of the old days into their forest for refuge. Though Curufin had not been one of those who taught them speech, yet they were not swift to forget the debt they owed to his kind, and it did not sit well with them that Saruman had pursued and wounded such a one. More than that, it suggested unpleasant things to them about Saruman’s power and what he might do to the forest of Fangorn itself if he got the chance. The Ents had much to think on, and much to speak of. The curious music of Old Entish rang through the forest through the night and into the dawn.

Frodo and Sam woke early, to find that the forest was still making the same odd noises as before and that Treebeard had not returned. Curufin woke rather later, and joined them for breakfast, "if you could call it that," as Sam said, "being that it’s not proper food."

Before they could become seriously worried by Treebeard’s ongoing absence, however, they saw the distinctive silhouette of an Ent striding down the clearing towards them. As he drew nearer, they saw that it was not Treebeard, but a younger Ent, like a rowan tree where Treebeard was like an ancient oak. He halted before them, and bowed, like a young tree swaying in the wind. When he spoke, his voice was higher and more musical than Treebeard’s. He said, "I am called Bregalad, or Quickbeam if you prefer the common speech. Treebeard sent me to speak to you, as he said you were hasty creatures and might like a companion, or news, or both."

From Treebeard’s refrain the previous day of "Don’t be hasty," Frodo and Sam had drawn the belief that all Ents were of the same persuasion. They looked curiously at Quickbeam now, and he seemed to notice both their gaze and the unspoken question it contained, as he said with a smile, _"Yes, you could say that I am the closest thing there is to a hasty Ent."_

Frodo and Sam, in their turns, bowed and introduced themselves. Curufin, who was still wary of swift motions, bowed his head respectfully and did the same.

"Where is Treebeard?" was Frodo’s first question.

"He is at Entmoot," Bregalad replied.

Curufin rolled the unfamiliar word through his mind, attempting to parse what appeared to be a compound of archaic Westron roots. "A council of Ents?" he asked.

"Indeed," Bregalad said. "Fangorn has brought us grave news of Saruman, and we must decide what to do with him, if we shall do anything. My mind is already made up, and so I have come here to ask on his behalf whether you desire any further aid of us. If what you ask lies within my power, I shall see it done."

"Well, actually," Sam said, "there is something."

"We need to get to Mordor as quickly as possible," Frodo put in when he fell silent.

"We would be most grateful if you could set us some way along our road," Curufin ended.

"You do not wish to hear the decision of the Entmoot?" Bregalad asked.

"I think we all would," Frodo said, "but our errand is an urgent one, and Saruman’s attacks have only made it more so."

"Very well," Bregalad said, "I will bear you to the river. I will not go near those places which Saruman has ruined, and I will not leave the forest by day, but I can set you on your way to Rohan, or to Gondor, if you will."

"We must avoid Gondor at all costs," Curufin replied. "Our errand is not safe with the Steward. We hope to follow the line of Entwash to Anduin, and thence Anduin to Ithilien. It would be easiest if we had boats, but if we must needs go on foot, we will."

"Perhaps," Frodo suggested, "we could build a raft? From dead wood, of course," he added hastily.

"I will take you to Entwash," Bregalad said, "and I will help you find fallen branches for your raft. Do you have rope?"

Curufin did.

Constructing a raft with the help of an Ent was, Sam reflected, one of the strangest things to happen to him in a life which had, of late, been rather full of strange happenings. Quickbeam had disappeared briefly after their conversation, to tell Treebeard what it was they planned to do, and had returned with Treebeard’s blessing. "He regrets," Quickbeam added, "that your errand is such a hasty one, but he admits that in such times as these there is sometimes need for haste. I will carry you to the banks of Entwash at once."

The journey to Entwash had taken most of the day, and had been very different from their journey with Treebeard earlier. For one thing, while Treebeard had said almost nothing to them after Frodo had finished telling him what he dared of their errand, Quickbeam was rarely silent. He talked to them of the trees, and the memories of the forest, and when the conversation lapsed, he murmured snatches of rumbling songs in Old Entish and occasionally in Elvish. Whenever they came to a rowan tree, he would stop and sing to it for a while before journeying onwards, and tree and Ent would sway in unison as though dancing some strange, stately dance. Then he would lift the hobbits and Curufin (who submitted, though rather grudgingly, to being carried) back to his shoulders, and stride on.

They reached the banks of the Entwash at evening, and found that it was, at this point, a shallow stream, too small to carry a loaded raft. Nevertheless, there was a fair supply of dead branches lying around, and even a few fallen trees, all of which were large enough to serve their turn, and so they set to work without delay. Quickbeam chose the branches — how, they did not ask — and brought them to the shore of the stream, where Curufin in the water and Frodo on the bank floated them into position and lashed them together into a rough rectangle. If they had too much trouble fitting a branch into its proper place, Quickbeam would come to their assistance, and somehow, he could always turn it the right way to get it to fit properly with the rest of the raft. 

Night halted their efforts at construction, but they slept securely while Quickbeam stood guard like a sentinel tree beside the stream and woke early the next morning. By noon, the raft was ready to bear them down the stream as soon as they reached a place wide and deep enough for it to float freely. Quickbeam carried them to the edge of the forest, towing the raft by the end of Curufin’s rope, and then set them down. "The Entwash is now deep enough to bear you and your raft," he said, "and I can go no further into the open lands. I must return to the Entmoot and see what they have decided to do about Isengard. May the wind be gentle on your branches and the rain sweet to your roots."

"Farewell," Curufin replied, "and I wish the same to you."

Quickbeam bowed and strode away back into the trees of Fangorn. Curufin hoisted his pack onto the raft, and climbed carefully on. "Come," he said to Frodo and Sam. "We have a great deal of ground to cover in little time."

Frodo followed Curufin onto the raft, wincing a little as it dipped under his weight, and sat down at the front. Sam remained on the shore, looking more than a little apprehensive. His dunking in the Isen had not cured him of his fear of water. "Come on, Sam," Frodo said. "This is sturdier than it looks. Here, I’ll hold it steady," he added, suiting his action to his word and grasping the roots of a tree that stood near the water.

Thus encouraged, Sam crept cautiously onto the centre of the raft. Curufin untied the painter, and pushed off of the bank with a long pole. The raft passed through the fringe of reeds that stood by the bank, and out into the sluggish current of the small river. "Well," Sam said wryly, "we’re off again. I hope this raft really is sturdier than it looks."

"It will serve its turn," Curufin replied. "And perhaps it is well that it does not look too sturdy. The soldiers of Gondor may not look too closely at a few floating branches, if we are fortunate."

Frodo, in the front as lookout, shifted uncomfortably at the reminder that Gondor was now a danger to them as well as Saruman and Sauron. "I hope Celegorm finds a way through," he said.

"He will," Curufin replied grimly. "He must."

"Didn’t you say something to Gandalf about how things didn’t work like that?" Sam wanted to know.

Curufin snorted in brief amusement, but he soon grew serious again. "We must attend to our own part of the plan," he said, "and trust others to attend to theirs. My brother has never yet failed a scouting mission. He will find a way."


	18. The Palantír

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pippin thinks that Minas Tirith needs better breakfast service, goes looking for the kitchens, and, in true Pippin fashion, finds something that he did not expect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My update schedule has gone completely haywire and I am past apologising. I'll try for another chapter Wednesday, though, and after that I'll do my best to stay on schedule.
> 
> Warning for mention of Maedhros' suicide in the paragraph that begins "Yes, son of Ecthelion...".

Maedhros did not sleep much that night. Upon calling to his brothers’ _palantíri,_ he had found that both Amrod and Curufin answered his call at once, which was an unpleasant surprise, for he had bidden them not use their seeing-stones unless he contacted them first, or great need was on them. Curufin had sent word that Mithrandir was missing, separated from his companions during a battle against some new breed of _urqui_ that could fight in the daytime in Nan Curunir, and that Curufin himself was wounded (and probably worse off than he was willing to admit). Maedhros had, in turn, to tell him that Gondor was now a danger to him and the halflings, and that his best hope was to slip through their ranks unnoticed and find Celegorm, or, failing that, to speak to Boromir’s brother, who might perhaps let them pass unhindered when he heard the urgency of their errand. 

Amrod, in his turn, had said that a _valarauka_ had emerged from the mine of Moria, and stood ready to attack Lothlórien with a great force of orcs and three of Thauron’s _Ulairi_. Last but not least, it seemed that the lost _palantíri_ had been found, or some of them, for two minds had attempted to break in or spy upon their conversation at different times. One, Maedhros suspected, was Denethor himself. The news that the Steward had a _palantír_ answered the question of how exactly it was that Thauron had laid so long a siege to his mind without affecting the folk of Minas Tirith, but it would not make Maedhros’ work easier. The other had been unmistakably either Thauron himself or one of his close and powerful servants, and that news was far more evil, for the _palantíri_ were their sole link to one another, and they badly needed news of one another. They would have to take great care, now, not to be spied upon.

There was still no report from Celegorm, but Maedhros trusted him to speak when he had something to say. Until then, he would remain silent and unseen. There was nothing more to be done for the present, so Maedhros retired to bed. Pippin, he saw, had handily beaten him in that respect, and was sleeping soundly. _At least one of us will get some rest this night,_ he thought.

Meanwhile, Boromir was pacing his own chambers and wondering what was to be done about the Ring. Maedhros’ warnings and his father’s eager questions rang in his ears together. _It must come to Gondor, surely you see this…it cannot come to Gondor…this is the stronghold of those who have stood longest agains Sauron…Frodo would not keep it long…we must keep it safe, not to be used_ save in the uttermost end of need_…I have no wish to see Minas Tirith made into a second Barad-Dur…Thauron’s taint is on him…I trust this only to you, my son…_

He buried his face in his hands and wished that Faramir were here. Boromir’s concern had never been with power out of old tales. He had read the ancient histories of his people to learn how the great victories of the past had been won: how Elendil the Faithful and High King Gil-Galad had appointed their troops upon the fields of Dagorlad and Gorgoroth, and by what means their men had stood against the Dark Lord’s armies. He had even sought out the ancient accounts of the distant past, those that were written in a tongue he could read, and sought to learn how Maedhros the Tall and his brothers had held back the Dark Enemy of old for five hundred years in long-drowned Beleriand. He had heeded little the accounts of Silmarils and Rings that came his way. Such things, if they had ever existed, were not a matter for soldiers, but for loremasters. His brother would better know how to deal with them.

But Faramir was not here, and despite Boromir’s best efforts, his brother, who was a diplomat and loremaster as well as a soldier, was on the field while he, ever a soldier and nothing more, trapped within the walls of the city that he had never before felt as a prison, grappled with questions of strange and ancient power and wondered how he was to reconcile the urgings of his father and his friends.

_Very well. I am no loremaster. Let me think as a soldier, since I can do naught else. We have in our hands the Enemy’s most potent weapon, but we do not know that we can wield it safely. Indeed, there are many who say that to wield it is perhaps more perilous than to fight against the Enemy who has it. We know that the Enemy can wield it. Why, then, should it not be destroyed? My father says that to destroy it is to send it back to the Enemy. My friends say that to keep it is to bring the Enemy’s power into the heart of my city. They say that his malice lives in it. To send the Ring to the fire is indeed a gamble, but _ much must be risked in war. _I will ask him, then, why the gamble of sending it away is so much more perilous than the gamble of keeping it in the city._

His mind made up, Boromir swept the problems of the day aside and cast himself down on his bed. As he went to sleep, a last stray thought crossed his mind…_the Ring has only ever been in the hands of Halflings…Isildur held it when the Enemy’s power was broken, and he was soon slain…what if a true foe of Sauron were to take it?_

Then he slept, but his sleep was broken by uneasy dreams.

Boromir woke with that thought echoing in his mind, but set further consideration of it aside for the moment in favour of his resolution to speak to Denethor. He knew that it was better to speak to his father sooner than late, and in any case, Denethor would likely call him soon. As soon as he had finished his breakfast, he strode towards the throne room, certain that his father would already be there.

He found that he was correct. Denethor, it seemed, had just finished his own morning meal, and was making ready for the morning’s business. He greeted Boromir with a smile, "Well, my son! It is good that you have come now, for I was about to speak to the chief stonewrights of the wall about the Pelennor. If war is moving so swiftly as your friend seems to believe, it would be well that it were set in repair. Come, sit by me," with a gesture to the servants to bring a second chair.

The chair brought, Boromir sat down in it, and said, "It would be well indeed, Father, but that is not what I came to speak of."

"Speak, then, of what you would. I have yet a little time before I must begin the business of the day."

"You said last night that to send…the Enemy’s weapon…to be destroyed was no better than to simply give it back to him. I have been thinking on your words, and on words that I heard at the Council of Elrond, which said that to keep this thing was to invite the Enemy’s malice to prey upon one’s mind. Why, then, is it is so much more perilous to send this thing away than to keep it? Might not it be worse if the Enemy’s will were to be set loose within the walls of this city than it would be if he regained his weapon? Why should we not see to it that so perilous a weapon can never be used again, for or against us?"

Denethor’s face drew into a scowl, but only for a moment. Then wrath was replaced by an almost patronising smile, so swiftly that Boromir almost doubted his eyes. "You have hearkened too much, I fear, to the counsels of those who do not truly see our necessity," Denethor said. "Lord Elrond sits safe in Rivendell, far from the frontiers of war. It is easy for him to say, let this thing be destroyed! It is not he who watches the Enemy’s forces grow greater by the day, not he who sees his borders shrink year after year with himself helpless to hold back the tide, not he whose people daily shed their blood to hold back _his_ forces a little longer! Let him be great-hearted as a king of old, and keep his Elvish hands clean of aught that he thinks may be tainted by the Enemy’s touch. We are not Elves, but Men and soldiers. Let us think and act as Men and soldiers. Sometimes, in war, we must do that which we may not wish to do, which we would not do if we had any other choice. If we must use the weapon of the Enemy against him that he may be defeated, we must do so. Do not doom your city for a scruple of the Elves, my son."

Denethor’s words reminded Boromir disquietingly of Celegorm’s warnings after the Council of Elrond, which now echoed in his mind. _Your despair will tell you to use the Enemy’s own weapons to defeat his lieutenant. Do not heed it…I took the Enemy’s weapons and used them to do what I told myself was best…And then, in the end, I found that I was like him. Trust me when I say that it is better to have a good defeat than a victory won by such means._

Finding his voice again, Boromir said gently, "It is not only from Lord Elrond that I have heard these warnings, Father. Lord Maedhros and his brothers know well our struggles. Did they not fight on the front lines of this same war against an even greater foe in the first Age of the world? Did they not also watch their forces wane while the Great Enemy grew stronger and stronger? Yet they, too, have warned me against this thing. Though we discount Lord Elrond’s counsel, I do not think that we should take their warnings lightly."

Denethor’s face darkened once again, and this time there was no mistaking his wrath. "What wizard’s words are these, my son?" he asked sternly.

Boromir took a breath to answer, but Denethor cut him off sharply. "I will hear no more of this, Boromir. You do not speak as one so loyal to Gondor as I supposed you. These Elves care nothing for the work or lives of Men. They will let Minas Tirith fall if it buys them time to flee to the sea! Speak no more to me of such counsels, and from this day forth pay less heed to wizards!"

The wrath in his father’s face alarmed Boromir, but the chief of the stonewrights was advancing down the long hall as they spoke, and he had no more time to make entreaties, or to say more than, "Father, you know that I would give my life for my city."

"You would give your life, you say, but you would hold your hand back from the weapon that would save her! Enough!"

With that, Denethor turned from Boromir, controlling his anger with evident effort, and greeted the chief stonewright. Boromir soon excused himself from the meeting, for it did not require his presence and he wished to speak to Maedhros.

Meanwhile, Maedhros and Pippin were breaking their fast. A small loaf and a pitcher had been brought in after the first bell of morning was rung, and Pippin had woken at once with an eager cry of "Breakfast!"

This was soon followed by a rather indignant question, "Where’s the rest?"

Maedhros had also woken with the arrival of breakfast, but he was not at all discomfited by the size of the loaf. "This is a fortress, Peregrin, and it will soon be at war," he replied. "Food will be rationed, for in a war those who grow crops must take up arms instead. We may even be besieged, and then there will truly be little food for all. You had best grow used to it."

"But this isn’t a meal at all! This is the sort of thing I’d have for a snack! There’s not anywhere near enough for two."

Maedhros sighed, cut the loaf in half, poured a glass of water for each of them, and handed Pippin his half-loaf. The hobbit gazed at his meagre portion despondently, but his disappointment did not prevent it from disappearing rapidly.

Then he turned back to Maedhros, and asked, "So what do we do now?"

"We wait. Denethor will call for us sooner rather than later, I think. If he is at all wise, he will not discount my offer of aid, even if he disagrees with me as to Frodo’s errand."

"What about me?"

"There is always some employment to be had in a fortress of war. You know something of handling a blade, now, but if you do not wish to fight there will be messages to carry and healers to aid. Do you have aught of the healer’s craft yourself?"

"No, I can’t say that I do. And I don’t want to be in a battle."

"Then you are wise. Battles should not be sought, though sometimes they cannot be avoided."

Their conversation was interrupted by a knock at the door. Maedhros called, "Come in," and Boromir entered, looking just as grim as he had the previous night.

"What’s happened?" Pippin asked.

Boromir glanced behind him into the passageway, then closed the door carefully, before replying, "I spoke to Father this morning to ask why it is so much more perilous to send the Ring to be destroyed than it would be to keep it here, when we have been told that it is a peril to all who hold it. He would not listen to me. Indeed, he all but accused me of disloyalty when I pressed my point. It is not like him to dismiss the warnings of a trusted counsellor without reason, and I fear for him. If what you said last night is true, what can be done to help him?"

"Much can be done," Maedhros replied, "but not without his consent. He must at least wish to be helped."

"Father has never been willing to admit that he needs aid. He will be even less so now, I deem. Is there nothing that you can do?"

Maedhros looked grim. "There is one way that I might try," he said thoughtfully, "but if it does not help him it will make matters far worse."

Pippin, meanwhile, was beginning to grow impatient. This did not seem to be a conversation that he could contribute to, and he was hungry and rather bored. With some vague hope of finding something to eat, he slipped out into the passageway and decided to take a look around. When his feet carried him to the Citadel, along the roads they had trodden the previous day, he half expected to be challenged, but either Boromir had said something to the guards about his guests or they simply took no notice of him, for he was allowed to pass the gate unmolested.

He crossed the green sward again, and made, not for the great gates at the front, but for a smaller door near the back. The kitchens of great houses, after all, were usually towards the back. He found the door unlocked and padded softly inside.

Several corridors and empty rooms later, Pippin had found a fair amount of dust-shrouded furniture, several statues, and an antique suit of armour, but no sight, sound or smell of a kitchen. His first instinct upon seeing someone else was to ask if he was on the right road. Then he saw the face, and slipped into a shadowed doorway instead. Denethor was looking positively secretive, and walking as though he did not wish to be followed. Somehow, Pippin did not think that _he_ was looking to raid the kitchen.

Once Denethor had passed his hiding spot, Pippin slipped away from the doorpost and followed, _taking more than hobbit care_ to make no sound. If he had not been certain before that Denethor was trying not to be followed, he would have been so after the first few turns that the Man took through the passages. At every juncture, Denethor would halt and look around as though wishing to ascertain that he was still alone. Pippin had a few close calls that way, but, as he had noticed during his explorations in Rivendell, Big Folk, even those most used to Hobbits, did not often look down and behind them.

Meanwhile, Maedhros and Boromir continued their conversation. "Whatever way you have thought of," Boromir said, "I think we had best try it at once. Once my father has made up his mind, time will only set him more firmly in his ways."

"I intended to speak with him this morning in any case. Indeed, I was expecting a summons from him sooner."

"I fear that he is wroth with you as well as me now, for I spoke to him of your warnings. He may not wish to see you at all."

"Will his wrath grow less with time?"

"Once roused, my father’s anger burns long indeed. It will not grow less in the length of time that we can afford to wait."

"Then let us go to him at once, and I will do what I can."

With that, Boromir opened the door. Maedhros, intending to tell the hobbit of his plans, called out, "Pippin?"

There was no answer. A quick glance around the apartment revealed a very clean plate, but no hobbit.

"Little rascal," Maedhros said wryly. "Doubtless he has gone in search of food or entertainment. I should have kept closer watch on him."

"Within the City walls, he can come to no great harm," Boromir replied, "and he does not have the passwords he would need to leave the gate of the First Circle."

"Then we shall have to trust that he can look after himself. If he is aught like my younger brothers, he will land on his feet, whatever mayhem he may leave behind him. There is no time to search for him now. Let us go."

They strode purposefully towards the Citadel, passed the courtyard, and entered the throne room, only to find it empty. Boromir, looking perplexed, led the way down the long hall and out through a small door beside the throne. "Father?" he called.

There was no answer. "Perhaps he is in his chambers, though that would not be like him at this time of morning," Boromir said. "Follow me."

On and on Denethor strode through the deserted white marble halls of the Citadel, and on and on Pippin trotted behind him, ducking into doorways when Denethor looked behind him, and wondering very much what it was that Denethor, the Lord of such a great city, could need to keep so deeply hidden. Finally, they reached a spiral staircase which Denethor seemed to view as his goal. Pippin was rather glad for all the days he had spent marching at high speeds on short rations, as he doubted that he would have been able to keep up with the Man’s long legs for so long without such training. Now, hardly winded, he followed Denethor up and up the staircase, until he was sure that they were in a tower. 

Denethor did not stop until he reached what looked like the very top of the tower. Pippin, hiding behind the stairway’s central post, peered around as the Man unlocked the door to the tower’s top room with a key he produced from somewhere inside his robes, and slipped inside. He closed the door behind him, but did not stop to draw it to. There was just the tiniest crack between the door and doorjamb. Pippin smiled to himself. _This, now, I know how to do,_ he thought, creeping up to the door and putting his eye to the crack.

Only long years of experience spying on his elders prevented his jaw from audibly hitting the floor when Denethor removed the cloth covering a pedestal in the centre of the room to reveal what was unmistakably a _palantír_.

At the door to Denethor’s rooms, Boromir called, "Father?" and, when no answer was forthcoming, rapped softly on the door. 

Before he could knock louder, a roar of fury echoed through the halls.

"Oh, no," Maedhros said. 

Boromir met his eyes. "Pippin."

Together, they raced towards the source of the shout. Without the turns and twists that Denethor had taken on his way to the tower, they arrived quickly. What they found there would almost have been comical if not for the expression of rage that had twisted Denethor’s face out of all likeness to himself. "Miserable little spy," he snarled as they rounded the corner, shaking Pippin like a dog with a rat.

"Father!" Boromir cried. "What has happened?"

Denethor ignored his son altogether, rounding on Maedhros instead. "So this is how you repay my hospitality, _kinslayer!_ You bring a spy into my house and set him to discover all my secrets! Oh, yes, I know who you are. You come here as though you had not butchered your kindred at Alqualondë, at Doriath, at Sirion, yes, even after the war was won when the hosts of the Valar had done what you failed to do and cast down your enemy, gratitude was not enough to stay your hand. And now you have the audacity to walk into _my_ city and claim that you have come to _help_ us. We do not need your help, you who wish that the Enemy may have his ring back. Or do you? Perhaps that is not your plan after all. Perhaps your precious brother will bring it to you, since it was his son who helped the Enemy make it. Oh, I see your plan. You would have the rule of Gondor for yourself."

"Enough!" Maedhros cried in a great voice, and Denethor, in awe, was silent, for Maedhros’ deep voice rang through the halls like the crash of thunder.

It seemed to Boromir that, though Maedhros did not grow taller, yet the hall and all that was in it, himself included, was shrunken. The Elf towered effortlessly over Denethor like a wave of the sea lifted up in terrible majesty above a low tree upon the shore as the sun’s light caught in its foamy crest. And, indeed, the very fires of the sunset seemed to be kindled in his flame-red hair, and the light of the Trees shone in his eyes like spear-pointed starlight that dazzles the eyes. The morning light that shone through the windows settled itself about his shoulders like a cloak and left all else in shadow. Heat filled the hall, as though a white-hot furnace had kindled before them. Tall and terrible Maedhros stood as the great statues of Argonath, and lifted his hand, like them, in warning, demanding silence. Boromir’s tongue clave to the roof of his mouth, though the warning hand was not meant for him.

"Yes, son of Ecthelion," he said, and his voice sounded as though Mount Mindolluin itself had found a voice and spoken aloud, "I am all those things. I am a kinslayer. I am a murderer. I am kindred to the maker of the Three, the Seven and the Nine, though he did not make the One, as well you know. And, though you spoke not of it, I am a suicide.

"But that is not all that I am. I am the eldest son of Fëanaro, the Spirit of Fire who with his own hand drove the lines of the Great Enemy’s soldiery back to Angband, broken and gibbering with terror. No power save that of all Morgoth’s Balrogs joined could stay him, and I, alone among the Noldor that are, have been or shall be, burn with a brighter flame than he. I am the grandson of Finwë the son of Illûvatar, who has seen the torments of the dungeons of Angband and yet returned unbroken. I come back to you now with the blessing of the Valar to make what amends I can for what I have done. What greater aid could you ask in your extremity? What need have you now of tainted Rings or Thauron’s dark crafts? I faced him when he was yet the servant of Morgoth. I endured his torments and spat his laughter back to his face. I do not fear him, but he will learn the fear of me. You thought that no aid would come to Gondor even from your nearest allies, but the Lords of the West themselves have taken care for your need. Take comfort and do not despair, for despair comes from the words of the Enemy that he whispers in your ear. Do not heed him. The _palantíri_ do not lie, but they need not show all that is."

Denethor recoiled like a man who has reached for his walking-staff and found a serpent, hissing and snapping, in its place. He had dropped Pippin in a heap on the floor when Maedhros first spoke, and the Hobbit was now hiding unashamedly behind Boromir’s legs. Boromir could not blame him; had he been small enough to do so he might have sought a similar refuge, perhaps in a doorway and well out of sight. He had thought that he knew what Maedhros and his brothers were after that terrible night when he had spoken of keeping the Ring for Frodo, when he had first seen the Tree-light shining in their eyes and learned that they had passed through death to life again, and been sent back by the very Powers of the World. Now he knew that he had seen but a fraction of the truth then. Maedhros in this moment did not seem to be a being of flesh and blood at all, but a creature of wind-whipped flame and ancient stone and blood-tempered steel that spoke with the voice of a Vala. Unaware of what he did, Boromir dropped to one knee in instinctive reverence. Behind him, he felt Pippin do the same without coming out from his shelter behind the taller Man.

Maedhros reached out and grasped Denethor’s shoulder in a gesture of comfort, but the Man shook him off in fury and terror. "Do not touch me!" he gasped.

_"Fear not,"_ Maedhros replied, in a softer voice, withdrawing his hand. The power that had hung about him like a robe slowly withdrew, and the light returned to the hall. Boromir released a breath he had not known he was holding. _"I am not here to rob you, but to help you."_

Denethor stepped shakily backwards, and then stumbled over the hem of his robe and fell to the ground, where he lay as though insensible. Maedhros turned to Boromir and Pippin and started a little when he saw them on their knees. "Do not kneel to me," he said, extending his hand to Boromir. "I am not a Vala, nor am I your lord. I am a child of Illûvatar even as you are. Come, Peregrin. Rise, and do not fear." 

Once they were both on their feet once more, he said to Boromir, "I have done what I can. Comfort your father, and speak to him. If he is ever to heed your counsel, he will do so now."

Boromir obeyed, walking over to where Denethor still lay and placing a hand gently on his shoulder. "Father?" he asked carefully.

"My son," Denethor said, bringing a hand up to grasp Boromir’s shoulder as though to assure himself that he was indeed real. "Please take me to my apartment."

Boromir helped his father carefully to his feet. Denethor leaned against his shoulder like a much older man, which worried Boromir, for his father was always slow to accept aid even when he needed it. Slowly, they walked back to Denethor’s rooms, once more taking the direct route, and leaving Pippin and Maedhros behind. At Denethor’s direction, Boromir locked the door after helping his father to a chair. There was a fire burning in the grate, and Boromir was thankful for its warmth, for he had found himself shivering in the cool air of the stone passages after the burning heat that had swept through the air when Maedhros revealed himself.

"Come, my son. Sit by me," Denethor said. 

Boromir obeyed, and they sat together in silence for a few minutes. As Boromir watched, Denethor seemed to come back to himself. The fear and weakness of a few moments ago were brushed aside, and Boromir sat once more beside the stern man of war who had raised him. Hope crept into his heart, for the clouds of madness seemed to be clearing from Denethor’s face. He placed one hand lightly on his father’s arm, feeling the mail that lay under his dark cloak. It had always comforted him when he was a boy, to know that his father was a warrior, strong enough to stand against whatever dangers might threaten. 

"Now do you understand?" Denethor asked, turning to face his son.

"Understand what, Father?"

"Now you see what the Elf truly is," Denethor said grimly. "We cannot withstand him without the power of the Ring. And he is only one. When his six brothers come, we will be in even greater straits."

He was silent, for he knew then that the gamble had failed. He looked deep into his father's eyes and saw that the madness had taken even deeper root. Denethor would heed no counsel now.

"You must promise me that it will come here," Denethor urged. "You can get the Elf to tell you where his brother will be. Then you will tell me, and we will send soldiers to bring it here before he realises."

"Father," Boromir said, "I do not think that this is wise."

"This is no time for caution, my son! Promise me. You must promise me."

"I promise that I will do what is best for Gondor, Father. You have my word."

Still standing in the hallway where Denethor had dropped him, Pippin stared up at Maedhros in awe and no little fear. Maedhros set his hand gently on Pippin’s head. "Fear not, Peregrin Took," he said, "I am your friend. Now, I believe I know where to find the kitchens. Next time, follow your nose."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first full day of this chapter takes place concurrently with the Ring party’s day with Quickbeam and the first day of the siege of Lórien.


	19. The Battle of Fangorn Forest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Rohirrim receive some unwelcome news and ride out to deal with it. They find both the allies and enemies they were expecting, but also some they were not. Merry sees his first battle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, thank you to everyone who has been leaving comments. I have gotten a remarkable number of kind opinions, and every comment is an encouragement to me to keep writing. I would not have made it nearly this far without them.
> 
> Second, this is the biggest action sequence I've written so far, so please tell me if it works or if there's something you think needs to be improved or clarified.
> 
> Third, holy cow, I'm practically on time this week! Don't get used to it, though.

A few days after he and his companions had arrived in Rohan, Aragorn looked out from the doors of Edoras over the weapontake of the Rohirrim. As soon as Théoden had heard his guests’ news, riders had gone out at his command throughout the land of Rohan to summon riders to Edoras. Maglor hoped that they would find a way to ride out and challenge Saruman to battle, but, though Théoden was wroth with Saruman for the magic from which he had but recently been freed, he was no fool, and knew all too well that for horsemen, even horsemen so well trained as the Riders of Rohan, to ride out against a place so strongly fortified as Isengard, was little better than suicide. There had been no word from Gandalf and Curufin, and Maglor knew as well as the rest of them that their errand to seek out Saruman had been a perilous one. What forces Saruman might have hidden in the Ring of Isengard they did not know, and the best way to find out was not by riding blindly into a closed valley between mountains. 

Besides all this, there was Saruman himself, against whom Gandalf had warned Aragorn before they had parted ways beside Isen. _You should beware of Saruman for many reasons, my friend, and his craftiness is not the least of them, but most of all beware of his voice,_ the wizard had said. _All who hear him desire to agree with all that he says, even those so strong-minded as you. Now that he is revealed, you could perhaps speak to him without danger, but most Men — nay, even most Elves — cannot. Should our errand to cast him down fail, do not confront him unadvisedly! Maglor’s craft will be your best defence should you need speech with him, but it were better avoided altogether._ Now Aragorn wondered if the craft of the wizard had brought evil upon the Ringbearer and his companions. He hoped it was not so, that Frodo still made his way to Mordor in safety, but without word from the _palantíri_ they could not be certain, and Maedhros had warned his brothers to use their seeing-stones only in the greatest need.

Aragorn’s attention was drawn away from the past and towards the future by the arrival of a hobbit at his side. Merry peered through the railing Aragorn was leaning on, looking at the steadily growing stream of mounted men, gleaming in mail, who were riding into the camp outside Edoras. Already there were too many riders to all be housed in the city. Some three thousands had come in from Edoras and the cities and camps that were less than a day’s ride away. Any who sought for Théoden after the third day were bidden to ride to Isengard.

"I’ve sworn my allegiance to Théoden King," Merry said, sounding very pleased with himself. "I have a sword, you know, since that…_business_ with the barrow," (this last spoken with a shudder) "and I felt that I ought to pledge it to someone."

"You have chosen a good lord," Aragorn replied.

"He said I should go to the armoury and get a helm and shield, though they wouldn’t have any mail to fit me, but I had to tell someone first."

"Well, come then," Aragorn said with a smile, "let us go together."

Before he descended from the lofty platform, he glanced out over the camp once more, and then halted to look more closely at a point near the horizon to the northeast. "What is it?" Merry asked.

"Two men in grey cloaks, on foot, running as though their strength is all but spent."

"What does that mean?"

"I do not know. Go on, to the armoury with you. I will go to meet them and see what news they bring. I fear that it will not be good."

Merry departed, with a worried glance, and Aragorn ran swiftly down the high streets of Edoras to the gate, which now stood open, though it was well-guarded. Whom he expected to see, he did not know, but the faces of his foster-brothers could hardly have been a greater surprise. "Elladan, Elrohir, my brothers!" he cried. "What brings you to this place, running like the Nine are behind you?"

"There is no time, little brother," Elladan panted. "We must speak to the King at once."

"Come with me, then," Aragorn replied. "He is in Meduseld with his counsellors."

Elladan and Elrohir fell in behind him, still moving swiftly, though they seemed to have no breath to spare for any reply beyond what they had given him already. Aragorn led them back up the streets he had so recently raced down, and the guards stood aside for him as he reentered the hall of Meduseld. "Théoden King," Aragorn cried, "Kinsmen of mine are come to Rohan bearing urgent news."

Théoden was taken aback at the two tall Elves who flanked Aragorn as he strode in, upright despite the weariness which dogged their steps, clad in torn cloaks which were stained both with mud and what looked like blood. "Let them speak," he said, and added aside to his attendants, "Bring mead for our royal guests."

Elrohir stepped forward, bowed slightly to the King, and began, "Théoden King, the Kingdom of Lórien, or what remains of it, begs your aid." Aragorn started at the words "what remains of it," but remained silent as Elrohir continued, "Four days ago, the mine of Moria began to spout foul smoke, and when night fell Lothlórien was attacked by many orcs, together with three Nazgûl and a Balrog. The orcs we could have dealt with, likewise the Ringwraiths, but the Balrog overcame our defences on the second night of the siege, and all who survived have fled the Golden Wood. We have no nearer hope of refuge than your kingdom, for the nearest part of Greenwood the Great is the place of Sauron’s ancient stronghold, Dol Guldor, and we dare not flee that way, nor can we hope to make the crossings of the Misty Mountains to Rivendell unmolested, for even in our flight over the rivers we were pursued. My brother and I, as more lightly wounded and less weary than others, were sent ahead at the River Limlight to plead sanctuary for our people, Théoden King."

Maglor gazed at Elrohir worriedly, but said nothing. Théoden seemed lost in thought, his head bowed over the table whereon lay the maps of Isengard over which he, with his son and sister-son, had been poring. Elladan saw Maglor’s concern and said, "Your brother lives, though his arm was wounded in the battle with the Balrog. Both because his injury slows his pace and because the rearguard has need of his aid, he has remained behind."

Maglor’s worry seemed eased, and now he turned his eyes to Théoden, who lifted his eyes as one who had made a decision. "The elves have sent their greatest warriors to the aid of Men. These Men, at least, will not be remiss in their gratitude. Whither do the survivors of Lórien turn their steps?"

"They follow the same road that we trod, Théoden King," Elrohir said, accepting a cup of mead from one of Théoden’s servants and drinking gratefully, "skirting Fangorn Forest. But they travel slowly, for they are weary and there are wounded with them, and ever and anon they must halt, weary or no, to fight off their pursuers. I deem that they are yet in the East Emnet of your land."

"We will ride out to meet them with all speed," Théoden replied. "Théodred, how many Riders had mustered in the camp at the last report?"

"Nigh on eight thousands, Father."

"How many of the enemy pursued you from the Golden Wood?" Éomer asked.

_"He who flees counts every foe twice, it is said,"_ Elladan said wryly, "but there could not have been fewer than three thousands, and the Balrog is worth that many orcs over again, if not more."

"I will look to the Balrog," Maglor said grimly.

"If such foes walk the land, Edoras must not be unguarded," Théodred put in.

"It will not be," Théoden replied. "Three thousands of Orcs may be defeated by five thousands of our Riders, if Lord Maglor can indeed see to the Balrog."

"With the Lady of Lórien and my brother beside me, I can."

"Then we will ride to the aid of Lórien tomorrow. Éomer, Théodred, each of you take your own _éored_. I will lead the knights of my house. Choose the rest of the five thousands as you will, but see to it that there are healers in their number and that they have good store of all that is needful. Bid them prepare to ride tomorrow. Lord Aragorn, will your kinsmen ride with us?"

"They will. They are Elladan, and Elrohir, the sons of Lord Elrond of Rivendell and my foster-brothers."

"Lords Elladan and Elrohir, I bid you welcome to Rohan. Rest tonight from your long labours. Tomorrow will see aid sent swiftly to your friends."

"All Lórien thanks you, Théoden King," Elladan said softly, then swayed and leaned on his brother. Aragorn stepped up to his aid and led them both from the hall towards the house of the healers.

The next day, Théodred and Éomer assembled their chosen troops by noon. Elladan and Elrohir, their wounds bandaged, insisted upon riding with the rescue party. Merry had, by dint of much patience and some argument, obtained permission to ride behind Aragorn. Théoden had wished for him to remain at Edoras, but he had insisted that he would run after the horses if left behind, _"even if I wear my feet off and arrive weeks too late!"_

Why he was so urgent in his desire to come, even Merry himself could not say, except that he did not wish to be left behind _like a piece of luggage for someone to claim_, but in the end, Aragorn had offered to let the hobbit ride with him, and Merry was both confused and grateful for the offer. His confusion had not prevented him from accepting, however, so now he was holding on to Strider, as he still usually thought of Aragorn, and looking from side to side in an attempt to see where they were going. He had seen the maps on the table in Meduseld, but there were precious few landmarks in the wide sea of grass through which they were now riding that he could use to see where they were on the map, save for the shadow which had appeared at the feet of the mountains towards the end of their first day of riding, and which he knew to be Fangorn Forest.

Another day brought them to the edge of the forest by nightfall. The Riders shifted uneasily in its shadow, but their horses were quiet, and Elladan and Elrohir, though they did not cease their grim silence, nonetheless seemed to be glad of the trees. They and Maglor were equally insistent that the trees were not to be touched for firewood and only dead branches should be gathered. "If our folk come this way pursued by Orcs, the trees in their anger may be of great help to us," Maglor said, "but only if we do not also anger them."

Had he not so recently lifted the spells of Saruman from their king, the Rohirrim might have murmured at following a commander who spoke of angering trees, but Théoden heeded his advice, Aragorn treated his words with respect, and the Rohirrim followed their king’s leadership.

On the third day, as they rode along the edge of the forest, with a screen of scouts riding a little apart from the main body to the east so that they should not miss those they sought by riding too close to Fangorn, Maglor, Elladan and Elrohir at the same moment urged their horses to greater speed, crying out with clear voices in a tongue that Merry did not understand. He could see, however, the plume of smoke which rose on the forest-edge before them, and knew now that it meant that the Balrog was there. Théoden, rising in his stirrups, cried aloud to the Rohirrim in their own tongue, and his standard-bearer lifted up a horn that he wore at his belt and blew a blast upon it. The scouts rode in and joined their éored once more, and the pace of the whole army quickened to a hand-gallop. The racing Elves were now far ahead, but the Riders were moving swiftly, and Merry could hear the rumour of battle ahead. He felt Strider’s hand clasp his forearm briefly, and heard the Ranger say, "Merry, all you must do is hold on. Do not fall off, and I will see to your safety. If you let go, I cannot promise anything. You must hold on."

Merry nodded, and then, realising that Aragorn could not see him, replied, "All right. Hold on. I can do that."

"Good," Aragorn said, and then, as they swept over a ridge, they found the battle before them. Merry peered around Aragorn, very careful not to loosen his grip. The Elves of Lórien made a fair army, though Merry could make no estimate of numbers, but they were clearly weary, their grey cloaks and tunics stained with mud and blood and smoke and ash. Most were wounded. Most of those who were not, or who were only slightly injured, bore or supported those who could not walk. Nearly all bore empty quivers, and carried their bows slung at their backs. As Merry watched, a band of perhaps five hundred or so orcs charged for the eastern flank of the retreat. A few bowmen who still had arrows loosed their bows, but there were too few of them to halt the oncoming orcs. The Elves on the flank turned, grim-faced, to receive the onslaught, forming ranks swiftly. Those who had shields raised them before their fellows. All brought their swords to guard save the archers, who had not ceased their barrage of arrows. Though they must have heard the horn-calls of the Rohirrim, either they were too weary to understand its meaning, or they were too intent upon the enemy at hand to pay heed to anything else. The orcs were likewise intent upon their prey, and had only just begun to turn towards the newcomers when, with a roar, the cavalry of Rohan swept to the right, avoiding the ranks of the Elves, and thundered over the orcs. 

Merry forgot all about watching and clung to Aragorn’s waist with a grip of steel. He thought he saw Théoden drive his spear through an orc-captain, and felt rather than saw Aragorn’s swing take the head off another. Éomer, his white horse-hair crest floating in the wind, was visible somewhere off to the right, laying about him with abandon, and Merry thought he heard Théodred’s horn-call from the left. Then there were, for the moment, no more orcs.

A tall Elf with silver hair stepped out of the ranks of Lórien, supporting his heavy steps with a long spear which was heavily stained with black blood. He addressed Elladan and Elrohir, who had pulled up to allow the Rohirrim to catch up to them, first. "Well done, my grandsons," he said in a slightly hoarse voice. 

Elrohir introduced him to Théoden as Celeborn, Lord of Lothlórien. He looked up at Théoden, and said, "You have my deepest gratitude, Théoden King, for riding out to the aid of my people."

"Your people have sent great aid to me, Lord Celeborn," Théoden replied. "Were it not for Lord Maglor, I would still sit in Meduseld _like a withered tree_ under the bewitchments of Saruman. It would be poor gratitude indeed if I should refuse aid to you in your need now. Now let us take counsel for what is to be done."

"I have five thousand Riders with me. Where can we be of most help?"

"The Orcs are behind us, and our rear-guard was weary long before we reached this place."

"Théodred. Take your command to the north. Join Lord Maglor. See to it that the orcs do not hinder him while he keeps the Balrog back."

Théodred bowed to his father and rode off at once.

"If we halt here, they will come up and surround us," Celeborn said.

"Then let us not halt. Háma, let some of your men dismount that the wounded and weary may ride."

With Théodred’s aid, the rearguard drove the orcs back some way, and the Balrog did not come forward, but still it drove the orcs on, and unless the Rohirrim wished for battle to be fully joined, they could not halt in their slow march towards Edoras.

Their march continued for the rest of that day, still harried by occasional parties of orcs which the Balrog sent forward to keep them from growing too comfortable, but otherwise without event. Théoden and Celeborn were beginning to discuss whether it might be possible to halt for the night and give the wounded even a few hours’ rest, when there was a clangour of shouting and blows from the south. 

"What has happened?" Théoden called from where he rode beside Celeborn.

The answer came back from a man whom Merry could not see, "Two thousand Orcs, at least! Behind us!"

Théoden and Celeborn’s council took on a new urgency, and Théoden called Aragorn to join them. Elladan and Elrohir had already ridden after Théodred and Maglor towards the north. In the end, the remaining Rohirrim were split into two parts, one facing east and one south. The way to Fangorn Forest was left unguarded, for the Elves were certain that the orcs would not willingly venture under the trees. Such of the foot-soldiers of Lórien as were still fit to fight were stationed behind and beside the horsemen. The Rohirrim were skilled at shooting from horseback, and they had brought a good supply of arrows, some of which were now given out to the Galadhrim archers, who waited behind the foot-soldiers with arrows on their bowstrings. The wounded who could not fight and all the non-combatants, save for the healers who would not go, retreated, at Celeborn’s advice, into Fangorn Forest. "The forest will hide them better than we can," he said, and none questioned him.

To the north, Théodred and Maglor still fought beside the exhausted Amrod and a Captain of Lórien, who, by the look of them, had not so much as halted to have their wounds wrapped by the healers. The Balrog was for the moment content to drive the orcs forward and keep the Elves from taking any rest on the road. Amrod, with a sharp-edged smile that made him look like Celegorm, had said, "I think he has no wish to meet my blade again soon, any more than I to meet his whip! We have drawn blood from each other, and now we circle for a while and see who will have the kill."

Maglor looked as though he very much wished to send Amrod straight back to the healers and not let him leave their care for a month, but in such a battle as this they did not have the luxury. Thought the wound on his arm was ugly, Amrod was still fit enough to fight, and his brother knew it. The arrival of Théodred’s cavalry bought them space to breathe, but Amrod refused to leave, and the captain, Cûlegyr, refused to leave without Amrod, so they fought on beside the Rohirrim as the day drew on and the refugees of Lórien continued their slow march towards Edoras. As night fell, however, there was a sound of shouting and horn-blowing from behind them, and the discouraged orcs took heart once again. Worse still, the Balrog began to advance slowly towards their lines, though Maglor saw, with vicious satisfaction, that it limped and bore no sword. "Well done, little brother!" he said to Amrod.

"My lord," came a voice from the rear, and Théodred turned to see Háma, chief of the king’s household, riding up in haste. "We are beset from two sides. A force of Uruks has come up from the rear. We must draw back and defend the Elves."

Théodred looked displeased at the command, but recognised its necessity and drew his Riders into line with the rest of the defences. 

Their stock of arrows renewed, the Galadhrim archers joined with the mounted bowmen of Rohan in sending volley after volley into the orcs which now advanced from all sides, taking advantage of the light which the setting sun still provided. Nevertheless, if Théodred and his men were hard pressed because of the presence of the Balrog, the other defenders were hardly less so, for the newly arrived orcs were taller and stronger than those that came from Moria, and they bore heavy shields and thick armour.

Trapped without manoeuvring room, the cavalry of Rohan found itself hard-pressed to hold against rank upon rank of orcs with spears, and the archers, though they poured a hail of arrows into the ranks of their foes, could not stop the oncoming uruks. 

Two thousand orcs, Éomer thought, might perhaps have been the number in the vanguard that first attacked them, but the army itself was far larger. On and on they came, and ever more of them poured over the south ridge and circled around the beleaguered defenders. It seemed that the creatures were truly as reluctant to enter Fangorn Forest as the Elves had evidently expected when they sent away their wounded, for they were only circling around to the front, not to the rear where the forest watched their flank. That was, however, the only mercy he could think of at the moment. "Ceorl!" he called to one of the riders of his _éored_.

"Yes, my lord?"

"Go to the king! Tell him that these spearmen will tear us to pieces if we do not gain a little room to breathe!"

Ceorl rode away with a nod, turning behind the lines of infantry who supported the Riders, and relayed his message to Théoden, who fought near Celeborn. The two withdrew a little from the front line to speak of it. "My sister-son speaks truly, Lord Celeborn. We are a people who fights in the open on the plains. We are not well-suited for this kind of battle."

"My folk, too, would rather see open ground before us now, but we cannot escape from this trap."

Théoden smiled. "No. We cannot. But we can use the way by which others have escaped to strike at our foe. Ceorl, go back to Éomer. Tell him to take seven hundreds of his best men through the forest outside the lines of orcs and flank them. Éothed," he added, turning to another Rider who was near, "carry the same order to my son."

Soon, Éomer and Théodred, with fourteen hundred horse between them, were riding softly through Fangorn Forest, Éomer to the south and Théodred to the north, just within sight of the forest’s edge. The darkness was all but complete, and they were forced to slow their pace to avoid branches and trees that loomed up suddenly in the dark, but they pressed on until the sound of battle came more from behind than beside them.

Merry picked himself up off of the ground and instinctively crawled backwards, rather surprised to find himself all in one piece and still in friendly lines. A moment before, Aragorn had swerved suddenly to avoid a thrown spear, and Merry had lost his grip. He had half-expected to be trampled as soon as he fell, but the horse of Rohan had stepped over rather than on him. Then the battle had moved away from the forest, and from him, after he fell, and he found himself alone for the moment. _Now for it,_ he thought, feeling the hilt of his sword. _I said I wanted to fight, and here I am, for all it’s worth._ He made for the nearest group that he could see on foot, and hoped that he would remember Maedhros’ lessons.

A moment later, he found that he regretted not having run into the forest straight off, for before the nearest group of soldiers stood the Balrog, a terrifying sight in the darkness, roaring and cracking its whip over the ranks of the oncoming orcs while Maglor and Amrod, with a silver-haired elf of Lórien, stood at the front of their company, braced to meet it. Flames rose both from the grass and from the nearer trees, casting a lurid light over the scene. _What am I doing here?_ Merry thought. _I can’t do anything about this. I’m a Hobbit!_ Then an answer came to him. _I swore to follow Théoden. Théoden has ridden out to the aid of Lórien._ He drew his sword and trotted forward. He could do nothing about the Balrog, but he could help with the orcs. He had come this far determined to do what he could. He would not back out now.

Before he reached the lines of the defenders, a shout went up from the trees, and behind the Balrog and the orcs, a body of cavalry trotted out of the trees and formed up around a figure he recognised as Théodred. With a music of horns and a roar of shouting, seven hundred Riders of Rohan crashed into the flank of the orc-army. No longer trapped in a defensive formation, the Rohirrim were free once more to fight as they fought best. Many of the orcs were simply trampled by the oncoming horsemen. Others were speared by the front ranks, and some simply cast down their weapons and fled, only to meet the keen swords of the elves of Lórien.

Merry increased his speed, and soon he was standing beside the Elves, who were rather bemused at the short stature of the warrior who had joined them. Bemusement gave way to admiration, had he known it, as his short sword flashed and his first orc went down, hamstrung. Finishing it off was a moment’s work, and then he was on to the next one, even as a voice in his mind that sounded rather like Boromir said, _Well done, Meriadoc!_ His hands remembered his lessons well, he found, and moved before his mind had had time to think. There was a strange exhilaration in fighting like this, trusting that he had comrades who would watch his back, and knowing that he in turn was trusted to watch theirs.

Maglor watched, first in concern and then in admiration, as a short shadow which revealed itself to be Merry trotted up out of his periphery and took up a place on the flank of their little band, and proceeded to acquit himself remarkably well. The hobbit was on his third orc when all Maglor’s concentration was drawn back to the scene in front of him by a roar of fury from the Balrog. Amrod’s words had rung true for the battle so far. The demon evidently preferred driving the orcs forward and wearing out the defenders to attempting to engage them itself, and the defenders had been content to let it, even had they been able to cut their way through the great press of orcs to reach it. Now, however, the orcs were fleeing in disorder from the cavalry of Rohan, and the Balrog’s rage was kindled. Its whip swung wide, and struck a line of Rohirrim from their horses, hurling them to the ground in burning agony. "Forward," Magor cried, and Amrod, with Cûlegyr who would not leave him, sprang forward through the fast-dissolving ranks of orcs to halt the Balrog’s rampage.

Most of the Riders had drawn back after the whip-blow that had all but decimated their first rank, but not all. Théodred of Rohan, at the head of his _éored,_ would not retreat. "Form up on me," he cried in a great voice. "Forward! Will you die fighting like men or fleeing like frightened beasts?"

He seized a horn from his banner-bearer — his own hung shattered from his baldric — and blew the charge upon it. Then he, with his hundred behind him, charged for the Balrog with sword and spear at the ready.

The Balrog bellowed again in wrath, and swung its whip, but the steeds of Rohan were swift and nimble, and Théodred swerved beneath the blow. Straight at its heart he aimed his spear, and as it drew its arm back for another blow, he threw.

The spear flew swift and straight, and its keen-edged head buried itself in the Balrog’s fiery breast. With a scream that shattered trees, left ears ringing, and called forth echoes from the mountains, it seized Théodred from the saddle in a burning hand as he swung his sword, dashed him savagely to the ground, and trampled upon him. Then, with a snarl, it plucked out the red-hot spear-head from the wound and hurled it away. 

Amrod and Cûlegyr were shouting, and Maglor knew that he must be as well, but, kneeling by the king’s son, he heard nothing save for Théodred’s slow, ragged breaths. His brother and the captain of Lórien hurled themselves at the Balrog, slashing wildly at its hands and wings as it staggered backwards, snarling like a beast driven back from its prey. Maglor was skilled in healing and mighty in song, but he knew as soon as he knelt by Théodred that there was nothing to be done. Théodred gazed up at him with peace as well as pain in his grey-green eyes, and Maglor knew that he, too, knew that he had taken his deathblow. "No…" breathed a voice beside him, and Maglor looked down to see that Merry had charged forward as well, and was kneeling beside Maglor as black orc-blood dripped from his blade.

"Faithful liege of my father’s," Théodred’s voice rasped softly, and Merry blinked back tears, giving the Man his hand. Théodred pressed it and released it. "Look after him for me."

"I will," Merry promised.

"Lord Maglor," Théodred said next. "Thank you…" and his voice was drowned in coughing. When he could speak again, there was a new urgency in his eyes, but his voice was fainter and blood stained his lips. "Thank you for giving my father back to me," he whispered. Then he grasped Maglor’s arm, but his fingers slackened even as Maglor returned the hold, and then he moved no more.

Merry stared at Théodred’s body in disbelief for a moment, no longer attempting to check the tears that ran down his cheeks. Then something hardened in his eyes, and, rising to his feet, he charged forward, back towards the battle and the Balrog.

Maglor followed him with a shout of "Merry!" as the hobbit cut his way with surprising skill towards the place where Amrod and Cûlegyr were driving forward towards the Balrog, trying to find an opening between the wild swings of its whip which cut down friend and foe alike. Then Cûlegyr stumbled, whether with weariness or wounds, and the Balrog reached out a flaming hand for him.

Before it could seize and trample him as it had Théodred, a small form smote into the captain’s legs and he fell backwards under Merry’s impetus, and the Balrog’s hand closed on air. Cûlegyr slashed wildly upwards with his sword, but it glanced off the Balrog’s rock-hard arm. Merry had, it seemed, bought him only a moment’s respite, for the Balrog advanced even as Cûlegyr scrambled hastily to his feet, and Amrod was still held at bay by the flaming whip, when there was a light like the dawn come down onto the plains of Rohan, and the Balrog turned from them to face Galadriel, who stepped forward out of the ranks of her soldiers with Nenya gleaming on her finger and the ring’s brilliant light glinting off her sword.

Her sun-gold hair was bound back from her face and she wore mail over her white gown, now stained grey and brown with mud and blood. She bore herself as though wounded, though no wound could be seen on her and her mail was unbroken. Grey weariness was in her face, but she stood straight and neither sword nor Ring wavered as she cried out in challenge, "Come, thou foul demon, and finish what thou hast started, if thy strength is great enough!"

Even as she spoke the Balrog laughed again, and orcs and Elves and Men all drew back from the terror of that sound. "Lórien is burned," it said in a voice like the rasping of tortured stone, "in my fires, and will you prevail to dout them now who failed then? Now all that remains of your kingdom will perish with you!"

As it spoke, it strode forward. The orcs surged back behind it, no longer hindered by Théodred’s scattered cavalry, and Maglor and Amrod and Cûlegyr stood back-to-back with Merry as the black tide rose about them, and for all that they laid about them with their swords they could not reach their own lines, where Galadriel waited steady and silent for the Balrog.

Merry could not see at all, for even the short orcs of Moria were tall enough to hinder his sight, but Maglor could, and he watched with dread as the Balrog lifted its flaming fist to strike Galadriel down. Even as she lifted sword and Ring together to parry its blow — for the light of Nenya was burning pain to such a creature of dark fire as the balrog — there was a flash of darker silver, and the Balrog’s fist descended not upon Galadriel, but upon her husband. Celeborn’s spear was shattered into shining splinters by the blow, and his flying body struck his wife and hurled her backwards among the soldiery of Rohan and Lórien. The air rang with the Balrog’s thwarted fury as it strode forward once more, lifting its whip, but paused in midstride, turning its gaze towards the suddenly moving forest, as a voice as clear and terrible as the trumpet at the end of days, like the voice of Doom itself come to scatter the world and build it anew, rang out from the trees, "Enough! _I am the servant of the secret fire, wielder of the flame of Anor! The dark fire will not avail you, flame of Ûdun!"_

And indeed it seemed that Anor herself, the Sun, piloted by Arien of the fiery eyes, or even Laurelin and Telperion in their long-lost mingled glory, might have come down into the midst of the night of Middle-Earth, for the light which was now unveiled upon the borders of the forest was so bright that it should have blinded all who stood near. The Balrog flung an arm over its eyes in agony, its red flames reduced to shadows against the purity of white brilliance which lanced into it through every wound with a keen-edged torment. Orcs wailed and withered to ash in the pitiless light, but Men and Elves and one Hobbit blinked in shock and found that, despite the sea of brilliance in which they moved, they could _see_. The weary straightened and the wounded breathed in relief, for pain and weariness alike seemed to be washed away by the flood of light.

And what they saw was all but beyond belief. Out from the borders of Fangorn Forest strode Gandalf, a white staff upraised in his left hand and Glamdring glittering like pale flame in his right, and behind him the forest was moving. Trees strode forward like giants over the land, and lifted orcs in their branching hands to cast them to the ground or rend them in pieces. Great voices that were not the voices of men were raised like trumpets behind him. "Mithrandir, Mithrandir!" cried Maglor in wonder and joy, and other voices took up the cry, and soon all over the battlefield those Orcs who remained heard the shout and trembled, though they did not know the name.

The cry was taken up by more than just the defenders: from the north the clear notes of Elven horns rang out as though in answer, and up from the hills came an army that glittered in Gandalf’s brilliance, led by two figures, one dark and one golden-haired, who cried out, "Rivendell to Galadriel! Rivendell for Lórien," as they came down upon the ranks of the terrified orcs like the hammer on the anvil.

Gandalf strode towards the Balrog with more than human speed, and Glamdring gleamed delighted blue fire as it severed whip and whip-arm together, and the Balrog roared its agony until, swift as thought, Glamdring, the blue blade that had once been the sword of the King of Gondolin, found its throat and drove home. Its roars forever silenced and its fires doused, the Balrog fell like so much stone to lie smoking upon the sward at the feet of its conquerer.

Astonished but heartened, the cavalry of Rohan rallied about Théoden and Éomer and charged into the far more astonished orcs of Saruman, who fled death beneath their thundering hooves only to find it on the bright swords of Rivendell. Glorfindel, the light of Gandalf’s revealing still seeming to gleam in his golden hair and bright eyes, _sang as he slew_. Elrond beside him was grimly silent as he cut a path towards where Galadriel and Celeborn lay still unmoving.

Maglor, with Merry close on his heels, was doing the same, while Amrod, laughing in joy at his renewed strength, hunted orcs over the field with Cûlegyr ever behind him.

While Glorfindel, still singing, led the Elves of Rivendell in a hunt — for it was no longer a battle — for what remained of Moria’s forces, and Théoden and his sister-son trampled down the Uruk-Hai of Saruman, Elrond knelt beside Celeborn and Galadriel, and saw with gratitude that both still lived, though wounded. Celeborn’s spear-arm was shattered and he had taken a heavy blow to the head, either when the Balrog struck him or when he struck the ground. Galadriel’s wounds were of the spirit, more than the body, but there was strength in her to rally if she had time to rest. Looking up from them, he saw with a smile that Maglor had seized Amrod by his uninjured arm and was all but dragging his brother towards the healers. Cûlegyr, still following Amrod, looked as though he was not certain which side to take in the animated brotherly debate. Merry, to Elrond’s great surprise, was with them also also, a startlingly grim expression on his small face, but he broke off from their little group before they reached the healers, evidently going in search of someone. Elrond wondered what had happened in the battle to change the hobbit so quickly from a youth to a soldier.

Then he got a better look at Amrod’s arm and laid aside his speculations for a later time. "The Balrog did this?"

"Yes, and it is not so bad as it looks."

"No, it certainly is not. It is worse. This should have been treated at once. How long has it been?"

Amrod was silent. Elrond nearly scolded him for stubbornness, but saw that he was reckoning up the time. "Five days, perhaps?"

Elrond shook his head over the stubbornness of patients everywhere. "Sit down," he said, in tones that were not to be gainsaid. Amrod looked as though he might have quarrelled, but caught Elrond’s eye and thought better of it.

While Elrond took charge of the healers, others began to seek for those who lay dead on the field of battle. It was Merry who led Théoden to his son, saying only, "I promised him that I would take care of you, my lord."

Théoden was silent even in his tears, but he knelt by his son’s crushed body and lifted it gently into his arms, wiping away the blood that stained Théodred’s still, pale face. "Bring Éomer," he said, and Merry withdrew to find he who was now the heir of Rohan. 

The men followed after Éomer and gathered around their king in silence as he rocked his son’s body gently, and Théoden took comfort from their presence. In the end, laying Théodred down again with great care, he rose to his feet, leaning on Éomer’s shoulder. "Take up my son," he said, in a voice that did not break, "my only son. Bear him from the field to a place of honour."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cûlegyr has appointed himself Amrod's informal bodyguard now, and will be following him wherever he goes, evidently. I did not ask him to do this, but he has informed me that that is how things are now.
> 
> Also, I'm sorry.


	20. Battle Under Trees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Mirkwood, Thranduil finds himself in possession of yet more unwanted guests, this time in the form of orcs. Compared to Dol Guldor emptied, even a pack of kinslayers and Dwarves may be the lesser of two evils.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am beginning to think I may have bitten off more than I can chew here...it looked easier when it was just an outline, before the characters started getting Ideas and wanting to talk...oops.
> 
> Oh well. Eat an elephant one bite at a time and all that. Here goes the next chapter! (And look at that, I'm early! Sort of. Close enough.)

The guards were loath to return the travellers’ weapons, but Legolas was in no mood to brook disagreement, and they were soon reequipped. Caranthir and the dwarves all hefted their axes as though they expected something to be amiss, but, aside from giving Glóin’s axe to Gimli and vice versa, the guards had left all as it should be with their possessions.

Now the travellers hastened with Legolas to warn Grimbeorn of what was afoot. They found him conferring with Álmgeirr in some consternation. "If they imprison our companions, who are their guests, what will become of us who have not been received at all?" Álmgeirr asked as Legolas strode out through the magic doors. 

Glóin breathed a sigh of relief to be in the open once more, as Grimbeorn replied, "Our companions are our guests also. We will wait to see what becomes of them ere we decide what we shall do."

"Your wait will not be a long one," Legolas interjected.

Grimbeorn looked up at him with a worried scowl, which changed into a smile when he saw how the elven prince was accompanied. He clapped Álmgeirr on the shoulder, making the smaller man stagger, and said, "What did I tell you? Here they are, free again. I said it must be a misunderstanding."

"It was so, partially," Legolas replied diplomatically. "But the misunderstanding is not all ended. We have set aside old disagreements now in the face of danger."

"And what danger would that be?" Grimbeorn did not look terribly apprehensive.

"Dol Guldor has sent forth a great force of orcs against our kingdom. My father has allowed our companions to be released before the battle that they may fight beside us."

Even Álmgeirr brightened a little at this news. "Well," Grimbeorn said, "you keep your promises, Legolas of Mirkwood! You promise us an interesting reception from your father, and what do we get but an interesting reception. You promise us plenty of orcs, and plenty of orcs we have. I like the latter promise better, though. Show us where to go!"

"We are planning our defences even now," Legolas replied. "If you and Álmgeirr will come with me, we shall see where you and your men will be best placed."

Grimbeorn gave a stern look to the guards, who drew back nervously from him, as they passed through the gates once more, and Glóin and Álmgeirr both looked less than pleased to be behind the enchanted doors once more, but there was no time for apprehension now, for Legolas swiftly led them all to the throne room once more. Thranduil stood now beside a table whereon maps were laid. Deryn stood behind him, eyeing the strangers with veiled distaste, but at a quelling look from Legolas he dropped his gaze. 

"The orcs have already crossed the old Forest Road and the mountains beside it," Deryn said at a signal from Thranduil. "They have not yet reached the line of the road by which you and your company came into this land, however, and it is there that we hope to place our primary defences."

"Why do we not deploy along the line of the river?" Amras asked.

"The river runs before and under our halls, here," Thranduil said, indicating the map. "I do not mean to allow the Enemy to bring his forces to our very doorstep ere we challenge him."

Amras bowed in acknowledgement. Thranduil continued, "My son tells me you and your silent brother wish to aid us in the fight."

"We do indeed," Amras replied.

"Does your brother not speak? I would hear your oath not to harm us from your own lips."

"We have had enough of oaths, your Majesty," Caranthir replied shortly. "But we have come here to aid you. You have my word on that."

"And mine."

"Does that satisfy you?"

Thranduil looked narrowly at them, then seemed to come to a decision, and said in tones that indicated that he had neither forgotten nor forgiven the last time that a Fëanorian had made a promise, "The House of Fëanor is nothing if not faithful to its word. You and your brother will lead our infantry, for we are a folk most accustomed to fighting from a distance and there are few among us who have often seen battle on foot. Your friends," and he gestured to Grimbeorn and Álmgeirr, "may deploy themselves as they will along the line of the road, so long as they do not interfere with our archers."

"How far are you going to defend the line of the road?" Caranthir asked.

"We could not defend the whole length even if we wished to," Legolas replied. "They will not find it easy to cross the enchanted river, unless they wish to build rafts under the fire of our archers, and from the river to the forest-edge is a short enough distance for us to defend."

"The line of the river will force them closer together unless their commander is wise enough to warn them against it," Amras said pensively. "Grimbeorn, I deem that you and your men would do well to take up your stations no more than two bowshots from the enchanted river. There you may do most good against the orc-infantry, and there also you will be out of bowshot from the other bank."

Grimbeorn gave a smile that looked more than half like a snarl, and said, "See to it that the archers you put near us aren’t the sort to startle easily."

Legolas gazed at him in confusion.

"Or the sort to shoot at bears," he added.

Legolas’ face cleared, though Thranduil’s remained clouded, and he said, "I will see to it."

In the background, Caranthir noted that his question of some days before had been answered, for it seemed that Grimbeorn and at least some of his warriors could indeed change their shape as had Beorn of old.

"We have little time," Thranduil put in. "The orcs will be here ere night falls."

"Then we’d best ready our men. Come on, Álmgeirr."

With that, Grimbeorn strode from the hall. "Where did your scouts report the greatest number of orcs?" Caranthir asked.

"As your brother says," Thranduil replied grudgingly, "by the river."

"Then either Thauron is giving them little heed, or he has so many of them that he believes our defences will be overwhelmed in any case," Amras said slowly, as though thinking. "If it is the former, we are well off, for he has underestimated us. If the latter, we shall have to be careful. Or perhaps their commander wishes us to think him undisciplined and allows his front ranks to advance without order to lure us into a trap."

"I fail to see how that will change our arrangements for the battle," Thranduil retorted. "Captain Deryn and his full company will join your friends by the river. Along the rest of the line, we will place scouts to warn of any concentration of orcs approaching and archers to keep the stragglers at bay. The remainder of our infantry will be held in reserve, half here, under my personal command, and half here, under Captain Lalven," and he indicated on the map first the location of his palace, and second a place further to the east, midway between the palace and the forest-edge.

"Then there is no more to speak of," Legolas said. "I will lead the archers to support the infantry. If all goes well, we will see little close fighting."

Caranthir smiled grimly. "If that is what you call well, I can say most certainly that this will _not_ go well."

Thranduil glowered, but said nothing more as Legolas strode from the room with the Sons of Fëanor following on his heels.

"I see that you did not wait for your father’s orders regarding us," Amras observed, in an offhand manner.

Legolas gazed at him mildly. "I do not think he wished to think of you enough to give such orders beyond what he has commanded already," he said in return. "As his second in command, I will trust in your experience to guide you. Go where you see fit. 

"Gimli and Glóin, as you cannot safely leave our realm at present, I consider myself your host, with a host’s duties. I would be grateful for your aid, but I do not ask it of you, the more so as you have not been shown the courtesy as guests that I should wish our realm to be known for. If you desire it, I will see to it that you are safely accommodated until the battle is ended."

Glóin made an indignant sound, and Gimli retorted, "I’ll not be staying out of this battle, prison or no prison. I may not be overly fond of your father, lad, but I’m far less fond of orcs! In such a state as ours, it doesn’t do to be too picky about your allies."

From Glóin’s face, it seemed that he did not agree entirely with his son’s speech, but he made no complaint, and added, "Grimbeorn and his men are stout fellows. If they mean to fight, I’ll not leave them to do it alone."

"You have my gratitude," Legolas answered, with a wry smile, for it seemed to him that Gimli and his father reasoned much alike, though from opposite sides of the question. 

Amras elected to station himself with the archers to the east. As he put it, "If the commander is an orc or a similar imbecile, I shall have easy pickings, and perhaps a chance come to your rescue, brother. If he is not, then perhaps Captain Lalven will be glad of my skill with a blade even if he is not so glad of my presence."

Caranthir, swinging his long double-headed axe, chose to remain with Grimbeorn, Gimli, and Glóin, offering no explanation. He bore himself with a somewhat defiant air as he took up his post, as though daring anyone to question his choice, but relaxed when Grimbeorn welcomed him with a cheerful hail of, "Good hunting, my tall friend!" (This last was ironic, as Grimbeorn was one of the few mortals they had met on their travels who overtopped both the Sons of Fëanor by several inches, but Caranthir paid it no heed.)

Legolas had no fixed station. Thranduil himself chose to remain with the reserves by the palace, where, by means of messengers, he would watch the progress of the battle on all fronts and direct the commanders as needed. Legolas, on the other hand, would step in wherever he was needed most, and lead the archers and infantry from the front.

For the moment, he stood beside Grimbeorn and Gimli, for the first onset would strike at their position the hardest. Glóin, nearby, was feeling the edge of his axe with a stern expression on his face. Caranthir stood motionless as a statue on Grimbeorn’s other side. The tense silence was broken by Gimli, who had been looking around at the Elves stationed in the trees, muttering, "Archers! What good are so many sticks of wood against a foe like this? I wish I had a full legion of my own folk here, with axes — now that’s a proper weapon." This last was spoken with a nod towards Caranthir’s massive axe. "We’d soon show the Enemy a few things."

There was little real bite in his voice, so Legolas returned in the same tone, "Dwarves and their axes! It is a wonder that your folk have survived so long as you have without any means of slowing the enemy before he reaches you." 

Grimbeorn rolled his eyes, and shot Caranthir a commiserating glance that might have said, _You travelled all the way from the Elrond’s house with these two?_ Caranthir snorted faintly, but his eyes remained fixed on the trees in front of him. Gimli either did not notice their brief exchange or chose not to comment upon it. Instead, he said, "Well, let’s see which of us can take down the more of these miserable creatures, and then we shall decide who has the better weapon!"

"Done!"

Then there was a shrieking and clattering from in front of them, and Deryn’s voice rang out in a call of, "Nock arrows!"

There was a soft rustling as, all around them, the Elvish archers obeyed. "Draw!"

More than a hundred bows creaked and groaned like trees bending in a mighty wind, as the first orcs came in sight through the screen of leaves and twigs and vines that stood between them and their foes. Álmgeirr and a few other Men shifted impatiently, but the Elves were still and silent as the trees in and around which they waited. The orcs raced onward, but their disorder began to take shape as the once-random groups drew together into a rough arrowhead formation, which yet followed no clear leader. Then there was the beat of foul wings overhead before the oncoming orcs, and a voice which belonged to neither Man nor Elf wailed up into the ranges far beyond mortal hearing, shrieking foul words to the air, as the wings of its steed seemed to block out all of the little sunlight that found its way to Mirkwood’s floor. The air turned chill, and the Elves shuddered. Grimbeorn’s Men flinched and blanched, and Gimli and Glóin gripped their axe-hafts until their knuckles stood out white against the wrapped leather. Caranthir stood still, as steady as stone, but murmured under his breath, _Ulairi_.

Still, though the Elves of Mirkwood were not the Calaquendi for whom the Ringwraiths held no fear, yet they were Elves, and the fear the Nazgûl brought was not so quick to take root in their hearts as it was in those of Men. "Loose," came Deryn’s stern and unquavering voice, and a hail of arrows met the onrushing phalanx of orcs. 

"One," Legolas said in a voice more cheerful than any would have expected.

The Nazgûl screamed again, but such was the thickness of the interlaced canopy that covered them that it could not come down to reach the defenders. Some, it seemed, had seen this already and taken heart, for Grimbeorn, though his face was still somewhat pale, shouted aloud, "It can’t reach us, you lot of idiots! What are you all doing, standing staring like you’ve seen a ghost? Pick up those axes and get ready! We’ll soon have worse than a lot of screaming birds to worry about if you don’t look sharp!" 

"Draw," Deryn’s voice rang out again over the clamour of orc-feet and orc-shouts, and the bows creaked again. "Loose," and again the phalanx faltered as the front-runners fell. 

"Two," came Legolas’ merry count, and Gimli grumbled under his breath.

The orcs, too, seemed to have noticed that the Nazgûl could no more aid them than it could strike at the defenders, for their pace was slackening. "Ready now," came Grimbeorn’s roar. "Charge," he cried as the wavering point of the arrowhead reached the far side of the path. With a bellow, fifty-one Men, two Dwarves and one Elf surged forward as one, followed by a slightly more ragged company consisting of those of Thranduil’s archers who were also skilled with sword or spear.

Orcs met Men in a thundering clash of steel and flesh. Though they feared the Nazgûl, these were Men accustomed to living in the shade of Mirkwood, who knew something both of orcs and shadows of fear. Now they faced a foe they knew, and their hands were steady and swift and deadly. Axe clove helm and shield and arm, and the orcs shrieked again in terror rather than rage. "Three," Gimli cried triumphantly, wielding his axe.

"Six," Legolas retorted, for he had charged with the Men and was putting his knives to good use.

"Would you two shut up and fight?" Caranthir bellowed, laying about him with the great black axe and cleaving a road through the orcs as wide as a man was tall, as the orcs scrambled away in terror and tripped and shoved each other back into range of his axe in their eagerness to escape him.

"Seven," boomed Grimbeorn, sinking his fingers into the throat of an unfortunate orc that had come within arm’s reach of him and snarling deep in his throat as he shook the creature like a rag doll before casting it carelessly aside. It did not rise.

Amras, meanwhile, crouched in his tree, picking off orcs as they came within range and keeping well away from Captain Lalven, whose scowl grew darker every time he caught sight of the Noldo. He listened with half an ear to the sounds of hand-to-hand fighting which came from his right, but other than the terrible screams of the Nazgûl, which could not daunt him and seemed to have little more effect on the Elves about him, he found little to worry him.

Indeed, he was more worried when the shrieks of the Nazgûl abruptly ceased, and the sounds of battle died away, for he preferred to have his enemy where he could see them rather than to be forced to wait for an unseen plan to come to fruition. As matters fell out, however, he did not have long to wait before his suspicions were justified. The sound of battle rose again to an even higher pitch than before off to the west, but before the idea of sending aid had had time to do more than cross his mind, there was a sound of crashing and cracking from just above his head. Tree-branches splintered and bent and tore, and a flying darkness settled suddenly on the ground behind him. As he turned to face the beast, its horrible croaks were drowned out by a bone-chilling wail from its black-hooded rider. Two more followed it, and steel gleamed in their hands with a fell light.

Captain Lalven lay unmoving beneath the clawed foot of the nearest fell beast, and all about Amras the archers of Mirkwood were racing to and fro in disorder. Some loosed their arrows towards the beasts and their terrible riders, but many held their fire for fear of striking their captain. Amras himself loosed twice, striking the fell beast which pinioned the Captain to the ground with both arrows, then slung his bow over his back as the creature thrashed in its death-agony. Even as he sprang out of his tree to face this new foe, his sword was in his hand. Behind him, he could hear the tramp of orc-feet as the second wave arrived, but he had no choice but to trust the archers to deal with them. 

Paying no heed to the Nazgûl which seemed encumbered by the still-thrashing body of its mount, he struck at the head of the second beast even as the other two Nazgûl shrieked their defiance and urged their mounts forward. His blade went home and clove clean through the its spine, but not before the third sprang forward with a flap of stinking wings and sank its teeth deep into his thigh. Then the Nazgûl were striking at him with swords which bore strange and evil runes, though they would not come near enough to put him in any real danger. Nevertheless, he was forced to parry before he could strike the beast’s head off, and its teeth sank deeper into his leg. Even after his blade parted its head from its body, the head bit at him still. 

In pain, and more and more worried by the sounds of battle of which floated towards him from all directions, Amras’ rage burned white-hot. With a roar, ignoring the shooting pain from his leg, he lunged recklessly forward towards the two wraiths — no, three now, for the third had extricated itself from the toppling wreckage of its mount. The two which he had just unhorsed, for want of a better word, sprang to the ground, forced to fight as they could no longer flee. Their screams beat on his ears, but had no power to daunt him, and whatever power they drew from their Rings, they were no match for one of the Firstborn in his wrath.

And Amras was indeed angry. His wrath was slow to wake, and though he hunted and hated orcs with all the eagerness of one who had endured Morgoth’s dominion in the First Age, he had not truly been angry in this battle until now. The pain of his wound was only a spur to drive him on now, as his blade flickered like a flame, flashing over, under, and around the swords of the Nazgûl. Forced to hold his place by his unsteady leg, he turned all his mind to bladework instead. His sword found first an arm, then a shoulder, then it struck home and one of the wraiths vanished with a long-drawn-out wail, and its robes collapsed into a heap on the ground, empty. The other two might have preferred to draw back and seek out easier foes, but they were hemmed in by the carcasses of the beasts they had ridden and there was no escape.

The evil enchantments which bound soul to unseen sinew were no match for a blade of the craft of the Noldor, and the flame of Amras’ wrath still burned high. It was not long ere the two remaining Nazgûl had joined their brother in the Void.

With the defeat of the Nazgûl, the orcs soon grew disheartened, and those which were able to escape fled into the trees, hunted by Thranduil’s archers. As the nearest safety for the orcs lay in Dol Guldor, it was not likely that many of them would make it so far. Now Thranduil and his commanders who were still on their feet met again in his throne-room in the palace. Captain Lalven had been set upon by healers as soon as the Nazgûl departed and, it seemed, had not regained his freedom, unlike Amras, who had evidently escaped their ministrations for the moment despite his roughly bandaged leg. Grimbeorn, having received nothing worse than scratches, was present, though Álmgeirr was nowhere to be seen. Caranthir had escaped scatheless, as had Gimli and Glóin. Legolas was the last to arrive, having remained behind to assist and organise the healers as they sought out and treated the wounded.

"What now?" Caranthir asked, supporting his limping brother with one arm and idly reshuffling the maps which lay upon the table with the other.

"What do you mean?" Thranduil replied, in a tone that carried somewhat less distaste than it had before the battle, though it still could not be said to be friendly.

"I believe," Amras said in a somewhat strained voice, "he means when will we return the Enemy’s visit? He has left his card, after all, and it would be impolite not to send one of our own."

Grimbeorn chuckled in the background. His losses had been light — few of his men had even been wounded — for if the orcs had not been prepared for axe-wielding Men, they had been far less prepared for enraged bears. Gimli and Glóin were still smirking in the background, and Amras was resolved, at a later date, to hear the story of what exactly the Man had done to earn such approbation.

"Partly that, yes," Caranthir said, "but I have not forgotten that my errand is to Erebor with Gimli and Glóin. If the Enemy has already struck at us, it is more than likely that he will soon do the same to the Lonely Mountain, if he has not already."

Amras’ face went even paler than it already was. "I should have thought of that," he murmured. "Why did the Enemy strike so hastily at us? Why not let his orcs wait secure in his stronghold and fight a war of attrition rather than risk them in an assault on the Forest Kingdom?"

"What do you mean?" Legolas asked quickly.

"That he must have had a reason for it," Caranthir said, "and that if he attacked us, it’s likely that we’re not the only ones."

"We have no way of knowing without sending messengers," Thranduil replied.

Amras smiled. "In point of fact," he said, "we do." Caranthir drew out his _palantír_ with a slight flourish.

It was some minutes before they reached Maedhros, and when they did the news they received was not good. Lothlórien had been, at the latest news, bracing for an attack, and now Amrod had not touched his _palantír_ for four days. Gondor was unsafe, ruled by a Steward who was losing the battle against madness, Curufin was wounded, and Mithrandir was missing. 

""Even Galadriel and my brother together cannot have halted the Balrog, not with so many to protect," Amras said grimly. "It will move in upon Rohan soon, even as Curunir’s forces come out from Isengard. The Enemy is moving sooner than we believed. The Rohirrim will soon be beset, and Gondor as well."

"We would know if Amrod was dead," Caranthir said softly.

"We would," Amras agreed, "and that he lives is cause for hope, but he will have great need of aid, and Gondor has no men to spare, for she will bear the brunt of Thauron’s main assault."

"Do you suggest," Thranduil said in a voice that carried no hint either of wrath or approval, "that I send my people to the aid of a son of Fëanor?"

"No," Caranthir said unexpectedly, "we do not. We _suggest_ that you send aid to your nearest neighbours, who are dealing with a Balrog, if they have not fled or perished already."

Legolas winced at his bluntness, but Thranduil seemed neither surprised nor angered. "And what good will bowmen do against a Balrog?" he asked mildly.

"Not much," Caranthir said, "but they needn’t deal with it at all. Galadriel and Amrod will do that. Your bowmen will be great aid indeed against a force of orcs. The people of Lórien will be weary, and their arrows will be spent. Your men will be fresh and well-supplied. Even a small force might suffice to turn the tide of battle in their favour."

"He is right, Father," Legolas put in. "If the power Amras has shown in destroying three Nazgûl today is aught to judge by, his brother and the Lady Galadriel together may have a chance of destroying a Balrog also, but even the best warrior ever to live cannot both protect a retreat from an army and strike against a single foe of great strength. Only we are in a position to send aid now."

"Do you propose that we both strike at Dol Guldor and send aid to the folk of Lórien? Our army is not so great as that."

"You should not give up the momentum you have gained," Amras said, "not if you take my counsel. I doubt that the Enemy expected the Nazgûl to fall. His orcs are now routed and his servants slain. This is our chance to drive him out of Dol Guldor once and for all."

"Our folk would need horses if they were to arrive in Lórien soon enough to do any good there," Legolas added, "and we have few enough of those in any case. Why should we not send all the archers for whom we have mounts to Lórien, while those who remain move upon Dol Guldor?"

Thranduil thought for a moment, then looked up with the light of decision in his eyes. "Amras speaks truly that we have now a chance to drive the Enemy from his stronghold in our kingdom, and I will not lose that chance," he said, "but neither will I abandon our long friendship with Lórien. The archers whom we can mount in the next day will ride to Lórien even as we march upon the Enemy’s stronghold with our main army."

"I will lead the riders," Legolas said.

"Then I’m going with you," Gimli said suddenly. "Our game isn’t over yet!"

"You are only angry that Grimbeorn has passed us both."

Gimli settled his hands firmly on top of his axe and prepared to be obstinate, but Legolas smiled unexpectedly, and said, "You shall ride with me, if you wish it, for even so steadfast a Dwarf as you cannot keep up with mounted Elves on foot, and you shall see again, since you are still unconvinced, how well a force of archers will do against a force of orcs."

A little startled by the sudden agreement, Gimli nodded abruptly and said only, "Right."

"Then Glóin and I shall depart for Erebor as soon as may be," Caranthir said. "No time can be lost in warning the folk of the Lake and the Mountain, if indeed they have not already been attacked."

Amras opened his mouth to say something, but Caranthir continued over him, "And you, little brother, will be staying here and letting the healers have a look at that leg. Just because Maedhros and Maglor aren’t here does not get you out of it." 

Amras barked a startled laugh, and said, "Lead on then, my most responsible and sane brother."

Caranthir grumbled at him as they walked from the hall, but there was no real venom in his voice, and the others drifted apart. Legolas and Thranduil went to prepare for the attacks which were soon to be on foot. Those who had neither duties nor need of the healers soon sought out their beds, for a battle won is hardly less wearying than a battle lost, and gives one far more time to complain about it.


	21. The Madness of Denethor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matters in Gondor come to a head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel it incumbent upon me to inform you that the working title of this chapter was "Big Trouble in Little Gondor."
> 
> After this chapter, my outline starts getting a bit sketchier, and also it hasn't been updated lately so it no longer matches all the events that have happened in the actual written story. As a result, updates may slow down a little after this week's early posting.

Perched at a seat beside the wall of the sixth circle of Minas Tirith, Pippin nibbled on an apple, courtesy of Maedhros, who had taken a good deal of care to ensure that Pippin was reasonably well-fed (at least by Elvish standards) ever since the last time he had wandered off, and gazed out over the plain with eyes that only half saw what lay before him. In his mind’s eye, he saw Denethor crouched over the flickering light of the _palantír_ with madness growing in his eyes, and Maedhros grown to giant height, towering over Men and hobbits alike as he warned Denethor of the peril of despair in a voice of terror. 

Pippin was alone on the battlements today, for Maedhros had no councils to attend this morning, and so had volunteered to "lend a hand" (his words, not Pippin’s) to the men who were rebuilding and repairing the wall around the field of the Pelennor. On those mornings where he joined Pippin on the city walls, he looked outwardly much the same as he had for the majority of their journey, save that he had changed his worn, grey-green travelling clothes for half-armour and a tunic bearing the device of his House. Pippin was keenly aware now, however, of the power that lay cloaked under that seemingly ordinary appearance, and it made casually eating a meagre second breakfast while sitting beside the ancient Elf a somewhat uncomfortable undertaking. Pippin rather felt as though he had come to Bag End on one fine spring day while he was still in the Shire and discovered that the Hill had been a volcano all along, but that Uncle Bilbo was still happily living in his hole as though nothing had changed and expected Pippin to come in and eat with him as usual.

Pippin had hoped that matters would quiet down after Maedhros all but set fire to the Citadel, but it had not taken him long to learn that he was sorely mistaken. Boromir had not spoken either to him or Maedhros of what his father had said after he led the terrified Steward away, but he had had no need to do so. The grim look on his face when next he saw them had been explanation enough. Maedhros’ gamble had failed, and Denethor was lost to them. Denethor himself had not sent for them at all in the four days since their last, terrible meeting, nor had he acknowledged their presence in any other way. Pippin suspected privately that he was doing his best to forget that there were such people in the citadel as Pippin and Maedhros, and could not quite find it in his heart to blame the old man. After all, Pippin _had_ spied on him, and Maedhros was rather terrifying even when not imitating a furnace.

Denethor either had not thought to prevent Boromir from speaking with them, however, or was not able to do so. As Captain-General of Minas Tirith, Boromir had more than enough authority to bring whomever he pleased to the councils of war which now happened with some regularity and always led to more seemingly aimless hustling and bustling through the city. Though he was careful to see that his father and Maedhros were never in the same room at the same time, he still found his ways of bringing Maedhros to most of the meetings.

Despite Maedhros’ promises that there was always something to do in a city under siege, Pippin had found himself rather on the outside for the moment. He did not come to the councils of war, he was too small to be of any use rebuilding the Pelennor wall, and there was nobody for him to talk to because everybody else was always busy. Which brought him back to the fact that he was standing on the wall of Minas Tirith, munching on his apple and staring towards the forbidding shadow of Mordor on the horizon. It had been growing steadily larger for some time, but now it was almost expanding before his very eyes. The previous night, there had been a truly tremendous storm, the worst Pippin had ever seen, marked by endless, livid flashes of lightening which were followed by crash upon crash of ear-splitting thunder. It was quite likely, he reflected, that the thunderstorm and the shadow’s sudden growth were connected. This was a disquieting thought, however, and also one that he could do nothing about, so he turned about, set his back firmly against the sun-warmed white stone of the wall, and turned his eyes to the street instead, wondering what all the people going up and down and down and up again could possibly be doing.

_Curiosity is no sin, Peregrin,_ Maedhros had said as they sat in the kitchen with their newly-obtained (and satisfactorily sized) loaf of bread four days ago, _but to overindulge in it is dangerous, the more especially so in a fortress of war such as the one you now inhabit. Not all that happens here will be for you to know, and you must accept that._

Under other circumstances, Pippin might have protested at that, but he was still far too shaken to do anything save eat in silence and turn his gaze from the fire to Maedhros and back again. Maedhros evidently felt that he had made his point, and instead of continuing into a proper lecture, he said, _That does not mean that I fault you for what you did, for you may have uncovered some things which are needful for us to know. It does mean that, should you feel inclined to do so again, I expect you to take further precautions. How were you caught?_

That had not been the question Pippin was expecting at all, and he stared at Maedhros with his mouth open for what felt like quite a long time before he remembered his table manners and shut it with a snap. Then he remembered the news that he had been so eager to share before Denethor’s glare had all but pinned him to the wall and he had found himself half-thrown, half-carried down the tower stairs and dropped in a heap on the floor. _He has a _palantír._ He must have seen me in it, because I wasn’t making any noise. Certainly not enough for the Big People to notice._

_I thought as much,_ Maedhros had said grimly. _I felt his gaze when I spoke to my brothers with my own _palantír,_ though he could not break in upon our words, and it explains much of the state of his mind._

_You mean…when you said he was under attack?_

_Aye. It is not difficult for the Enemy to send evil winds and sickness of the mind upon a whole city from afar off, but for a single man, and he only, to be under such an attack, speaks of something more at work, some subtler poison. Thauron must have a _palantír_ of his own._

_You said that they don’t lie, but they needn’t tell the whole truth. Was that what you were talking about?_

_Indeed it was. Even Thauron’s craft cannot make a seeing-stone show that which is not, and Denethor’s is not a mind that he could bend to his will without breaking it utterly, and that did not serve his purpose then, but he could see to it that all Denethor saw fed his despair, and hide all that might have brought him hope. The despair itself he would not have no need to plant, not in such a place and time as this. Gondor has long fought a losing war, and Denethor knows it all too well._

_It’s not a losing war anymore, is it?_

_Not if I have aught to do with it, but even if it were, all we need do is keep the Dark Lord’s_ eye fixed on us _while Frodo carries out his errand._

_Do you really think it will work? Frodo and Sam terribly are brave, but they’re only hobbits after all._

_I, of all people, should believe that there is hope of success for their errand. My cousin, alone, found a way to pass all the Great Enemy’s defences, and found me where I hung shackled from the cliffs of Thangorodrim in the First Age, and though he needed the aid of the great eagles of Manwë to cut me down from the cliff and bring me back to safety, he had no such aid when he sought me. In any case, you undervalue your own race, I deem. Did not your uncle burgle a dragon?_

_Well, after a fashion, I suppose._ They sat in silence for a moment, Maedhros evidently feeling that he had made his point once more. Pippin was not entirely reassured, but he was at least a little encouraged, and anyway there really wasn’t much more to be said. Then an earlier train of thought returned, and he asked, _What are we going to do about the _palantír?

_There is naught we can do at present. We could, perhaps, take it by force, but such an act would do no good now, and might do harm. We must give the Steward no further cause of wrath, or perhaps we will find ourselves prisoners, friends of Boromir or no. Now we must wait and watch, and trust to Boromir and to your cousin._

The conversation had ended there, and Pippin had retreated to their rooms, shaken but hopeful. It was only later that they had seen Boromir again and known that their attempt to shake Denethor out of his despair had failed. Now it was indeed a matter of interminable waiting and watching to see what Denethor would do — and what Sauron would do.

Pippin was drawn out of his reverie by the arrival of a tall figure clad in the black and silver of the Tower Guard, who came striding on so fast that he was almost running. He did not expect the Man to notice him, but in fact he came directly over to Pippin and asked in a somewhat breathless voice, "You are Peregrin of the Shire?"

"Yes," Pippin said, drawing out the word in his curiosity.

"Lord Boromir has sent for both you and the Lord Maedhros to come to the Citadel at once. Where is your companion?"

"With the men working on the outwalls. What has happened?"

"I do not know what the import of the words are, but Lord Boromir bade me tell you both that the Lord Denethor sends out soldiers to pursue 'one whom you know well'. Do you know of whom he spoke?"

"Frodo…" Pippin breathed. "We must get to Maedhros at once. And those soldiers mustn’t go!"

"The Lord Boromir is speaking to the Steward even now to see the order revoked if he can. I will find the Lord Maedhros. You had best go to the council chamber at once, Peregrin."

Pippin would have liked to go with the man, but he knew from experience that the Big People could move much faster than he when they had the will, and this one was in quite the hurry. He said, "Right then," and was on the verge of departing when a thought came to him, and he added, "Where would I find the soldiers who are to be sent out?" 

Pippin knew that asking that was as good as asking his mother where the pies for dinner were cooling, but this man seemed to be loyal to Boromir, so perhaps he would overlook it. His luck held, it seemed, for the man said, "The guardhouse just below the entrance to the Citadel. Tell the captain that Beregond sent you with word from the Lord Boromir."

"Right," Pippin said again, and darted off towards the guardhouse as quickly as his feet would carry him.

Beregond’s message did indeed win him passage into the guardhouse, with the addition of an escort to Eärendur, captain of the Third Company of the Citadel Guard. As soon as he had been introduced, Pippin all but blurted out, "Please, you mustn’t go out after Frodo!"

Eärendur looked at the Halfling with a surprised and wary gaze, as he replied, "I cannot speak of my errand to any save the Lord Denethor and his close counsellors, by order of the Steward himself. How came you to know of this?"

"Lord Boromir sent for me and the Lord Maedhros, and he told us. You’ve got to believe me!"

"If the Lord Boromir sent for you, you had best go to him and not to me. I have no power to overthrow my orders."

"I’m waiting for Maedhros to turn up now, but please, at least wait to hear from Boromir before you go. Frodo has something that can’t come to Gondor. It mustn’t!"

Eärendur’s gaze was still wary, but he replied, "I can wait to hear Lord Boromir confirm the order ere I leave to search for this Frodo Baggins."

As he spoke there was a noise of light footsteps running swiftly past the guardhouse, and Pippin, with a hurried "Excuse me!" to the startled Eärendur, darted out to follow Maedhros. Pippin could hardly keep up with the tall Elf, but he pushed his legs as hard as they would go and pelted on, all but unnoticed in Maedhros’ wake. As they neared the throne room, he could hear Denethor’s voice, raised in wrath. Either Beregond had understated his case somewhat when he said that Boromir and Denethor were "speaking" to each other, or what had once been a discussion had escalated since Boromir sent Beregond out to find them. The first clear words he heard were Denethor’s, and they did nothing to set his mind at ease. "I looked to find in you an ally against Elves and wizards, an ally in my service to Gondor," Denethor growled.

"Father, I am your ally in all things which are for the good of Gondor," Boromir replied in a reassuring voice. "This is not. It cannot be turned to our good if we bring a part of the Enemy’s spirit into the stronghold of his most steadfast foes."

Denethor continued as though he had not heard. "I find instead that not only do you conspire with my foes behind my back to undermine my rule, and but now you question my orders before my very face, in the presence of my servants! I am your liege-lord and commander. It is not yours to question what I may bid you do. It is yours to obey with speed. I have commanded that the Halfling and his precious burden be brought to Gondor. Will you, or will you not, do as I bid you?"

"It is my duty to counsel you, both as your liege and as your son, and as the commander of Gondor’s armies it is my duty to serve her and seek her good above all else. What you command will do her great evil, though you do not intend it."

Son and father had continued their conversation as Maedhros and Pippin walked softly down the hall from the silently swinging doors. Now, as it seemed, Maedhros deemed that it was time to intervene. "Your son speaks wise words, Lord Steward. It is the part of wisdom to heed good counsel, even when it speaks with a harsh voice, yet to you it speaks with the voice of your near kindred. Heed it to your great gain. Disregard it at your peril."

"It is you," Denethor cried, turning on him with a snarl, "who has turned my ever-loyal son against me. Ever has Faramir been a wizard’s pupil, keen upon his own designs and seldom heeding me, but never before has Boromir thus crossed me. Out of my sight, kinslayer, and take your under-sized spy with you, ere I bid the guards seize you, abandoning the courtesy of a host as you have abandoned the courtesy of a guest."

Maedhros planted his feet firmly on the stones like a tree setting its roots deep in the earth, ready to weather many a storm and wild wind. Boromir, seeing the motion, braced himself as for a blow. Pippin slipped a little further behind Maedhros and hoped that this conversation would not end with him being picked up bodily and shaken like a rabbit. Denethor, seeing Maedhros’ defiance, was about to round upon him when the doors to the throne room opened with a clang, such was the urgency of those who drew them back and of he who entered. Into the room strode a man _so like in form and face to Boromir_ that, had Pippin not known that it was he who stood beside Denethor, he might have greeted him by that name. Unlike the man he so resembled, however, the stranger was clad much like Aragorn, in clothes of green and brown, much worn and stained by travel. He wore a long sword at his side, and a bow and quiver at his back, and moved with a swift and sure but weary step, as one who has travelled long and hard to reach his goal and now sees it near. "Father," he said in a tone that made the word greeting and question both, looking warily at Maedhros and Pippin with a gaze that seemed to hold some recognition, though Pippin could not recall ever having met him before.

Denethor’s eyes glittered with an unnerving light, but he restrained himself, and asked in a voice that was almost calm, "What news do you bring, my son, that you return so hastily from the post I have given you?"

There was a change in the cast of Faramir’s face, as though a door had been closed or an offer withdrawn, though there was no change in his outward expression. He glanced once more at Maedhros and Pippin, but spoke to Denethor. "I have much news, Father," he said in a voice that was somewhat cooler than it had been, "and little good. The Dark Lord draws all his forces together for a stroke sooner than we expected. Many thousands of Easterlings have marched into his land in the last month alone, and though we hinder them as we can, there is little that a handful of men, however skilled, can do against forces of such size, for they travel now in great caravans and no longer risk themselves in small parties which we can easily ambush or lead astray. The storm of last night was no _weather of the world,_ but a device of the Enemy’s, I deem, for all the night dire lightning went up from the tower of Minas Morgul and was answered with flashes of red from Amon Amarth itself, and this morning, as soon as the shadow of the clouds which rise from Amon Amarth covered the sun, the gates of Morgul opened. Hosts have not ceased to issue forth since that time, and shadows of dread go before them. Only one scout has dared the passes of the Ephel Duath, and he reports that orcs uncountable are mustered on the plains of Gorgoroth. We must prepare for a siege with all speed."

"And what have you done in response to this _dire_ news?" Denethor’s voice was soft and perilous.

Faramir took a deep breath and braced himself, a gesture in which his resemblance to his brother grew even stronger, before he continued. "I have taken it upon myself to withdraw all scouts and rangers from Ithilien, for it will soon be overrun. The walls of the Pelennor are not yet in repair, and the Enemy has sufficient forces to strike for more than one crossing of the Anduin, and so I withdrew the garrison from Cair Andros as well, lest it be cut off, and I have ordered that after all that is left of the bridge of Osgiliath is thrown down our men are to retreat from it also. In short, I have drawn all our men back to the city, for the force which now marches upon us is such that any defiance without the safety of a fortress equipped for siege would be no more than a futile gesture, and the retreat before the Enemy’s forces which would necessarily follow such an action, perilous at best. I hope I have not done amiss, Father."

Boromir nodded to his brother in approval and received a brief smile in return, but that Denethor was not so pleased was evident from his face. To both Boromir and Faramir’s evident surprise, however, rather than upbraid his son at once, he said, still in the quiet and dangerous voice of before, "We will discuss your actions in their proper place, but first, I wish to hear if you have seen or heard aught of two halflings in Ithilien, perhaps accompanied by an Elf."

Faramir looked startled at his father’s knowledge, and Denethor smiled grimly, as though he had expected it. "How you know of this, Father, I do not know," Faramir said in surprise, "but there were indeed two halflings who came into my care, accompanied by a wounded Elf. The halflings were named Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee, and their companion was called Curufin. He has remained with my folk, for his wound was serious and he could not continue under the perils into which they planned to venture."

"Which were?" Denethor prompted, when Faramir paused to gather his thoughts.

"They sought Mordor, Father." He paused once more, as though weighing some decision in his mind.

"And none would seek the land of the Enemy unless they were his spies. You have seized them all, then. That is well." 

For the first time in the conversation, Denethor looked pleased. Boromir’s face had turned ashen-pale, and Maedhros’ perfect stillness had gained something of the quality of the marble statues which watched the throne room from their high alcoves in the wall. Faramir winced a little, but said steadily enough, "No. I did not seize them, for they were not spies. Rather, they were not spies for the Enemy. They bore a great weapon with them."

Denethor’s eyes grew keener, and he fastened his gaze upon his son as though he would, by the mere power of his glance, read what had transpired out of the other’s mind. Faramir continued, "They bore the Enemy’s Ring, which was once thought lost, to be destroyed in the fires of Mordor. I did not hinder them, for their errand, should it succeed, might well be our salvation in the coming war. Curufin spoke to me of his brothers, and their hope of an alliance, and I see that one of them is here with you already. Another was the scout I spoke of before, who dared the perils of the Morannon to bring us news from the very gate of the Enemy’s stronghold. The halflings are now doubtless with him, and beyond our reach."

"And you did not think what good _a mighty gift_ like the One Ring might do, were it wielded by a hand friendly to us?" Denethor roared. _"You have sent the Ring into Mordor in the hands of a witless Halfling,_ and in so doing you have doomed us all!"

"I did think of what the Ring might do if it came to Gondor," said Faramir wearily, "and that way I saw something worse than defeat. _Not even if it lay beside the road — not even if Gondor were falling in ruin and I alone could save her — _ would I use this thing."

Denethor, his face and hands working, his eyes glittering strangely, strode over to where Faramir stood. Boromir put out a hand as though to either halt him or comfort him, but Denethor strode past out of his reach, and his arm fell back to his side, for his feet seemed rooted to the floor. Before anyone else could move, the Steward set his left hand on Faramir’s shoulder in a parody of a father’s approving grasp, and gritted out in a strangled voice, "You…are not…my son!"

There was a flash of steel in his right hand. Maedhros sprang forward with a cry, but, swift and urgent as he was, he was too far away to stay Denethor’s dagger before it drove home into Faramir’s breast.

The breath was driven from Faramir’s lungs in a gasp, but there was no pain in his face as he looked down in confusion at the black hilt that stood out from his chest. "Father?" he asked.

Something changed in Denethor’s eyes in that moment. The hand that had seized Faramir’s shoulder to hold him still for the executioner’s blow became the hand of a father in truth. Denethor stared in horror into his son’s still-baffled eyes, bringing his other, bloodied, hand up to cup Faramir’s face gently. "My son?" he breathed, with tears in his voice. "What have I done?"

Until that instant, all save Maedhros had stood still, frozen in shock and grief. Now Boromir recalled himself, and drove his full weight into Denethor with a roar, lifting him cleanly off of Faramir. They landed on the floor several paces away with Boromir uppermost. With a roar of his own, Denethor hurled his son away with the strength of madness. Boromir lunged forward again, unthinking, as Denethor reached for his sword. Faramir, deprived of his father’s supporting hand, fell heavily, first to his knees, then to the ground.

Now, however, Maedhros’ mad race to reach the little group was over, and everything seemed to happen at once. Denethor finished drawing his sword and, without bothering to rise to his feet, struck wildly at Boromir, who was reaching for his own sword, but stepped aside instinctively so that Denethor’s blow glanced off of his ribs rather than driving home into his chest. Then Maedhros was between them, shoving Boromir aside. His sword was in his hand before Pippin had even seen him draw it, and it struck true. The keen blade found Denethor’s heart. The Steward of Gondor fell to the ground, dead.

Boromir stared at the scene before him in utter confusion. "What?" he asked of Maedhros, as the Elf raced to Faramir’s side and knelt beside Pippin, who had come swiftly to Faramir as soon as he began to fall, but did not know of anything to do.

"There will be no kinslaying while I am here," Maedhros said in a grim and weary voice. "Your brother clings to life, but only just, and not, perhaps, for long. We must take him to the Houses of Healing at once if there is to be any hope." Then, turning to Boromir, he saw the bleeding cut that Denethor’s sword had left, and added, "You should see the healers for that as well."

Maedhros lifted Faramir gently in his arms, turned on his heel, and strode from the hall as swiftly as he might without disturbing his unconscious burden. Boromir, to Pippin’s astonishment, despite shock and wounds and grief, pulled himself together and followed Maedhros, pressing a cautious hand to his side to stem the flowing blood. Pippin, too, followed after, for he did not wish to remain in that grim hall with the Steward’s corpse. "Seal the hall until we return," Boromir said to the guards. "Let none enter by any door."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaand Denethor has lost the plot. Um. Not much else I can say there. Sorry about that?
> 
> Beregond’s appearance wasn’t planned, but he wanted to say hi to Pippin, so there he is. He’ll probably show up again.
> 
> Eärendur is an OC. While Beregond's company definitely has a captain, he's never named or even mentioned, so I named him after one of Aragorn's many ancestors.


	22. The Rangers of Ithilien

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frodo, Sam and Curufin journey down the River Anduin and meet new allies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’re taking a bit of a jump back in time in this chapter, to events that we saw briefly narrated by Faramir in the previous chapter.
> 
> I'm sorry for updating late after what I did last chapter, but I did warn you about that. It's a nice long chapter, though, so hopefully that will make up for it.

The makeshift raft floated down Entwash through the day and into the night. Curufin’s shoulder must have hurt him more than he was letting on, Sam thought, because he only used the pole to extricate them from roots and driftwood in the stream, and otherwise allowed the current pull them downstream at its own speed. They made up for their slow pace, however, by continuing their journey right through the night. They did not even halt for supper, but ate of the _lembas_ Curufin produced from his pack while they drifted on. Only when the sun’s rays gilded the eastern horizon did he plant the pole in the mud by the river-side and enlist Sam, who, while he might not like boats, could manage ropes quite well and had two good hands into the bargain, to tie the painter up to it. 

They made a cold camp on the western bank of the stream in a little hollow of the land and nibbled on the dried meat and hard bread that made up most of their supplies now, with the exception of the _lembas,_ which Curufin seemed reluctant to hand out too often. Sam noted that Curufin’s face, always pale, was blanched to the colour of parchment by the early-morning light, and Frodo was fingering the chain about his neck in a worrisome way, and so he broke the long silence that had hung over their journey so far by saying, "All due respect, but I’m taking the first watch, now. You two might as well get some sleep." 

Suiting the action to the word, set his back to the small tree that shaded their camp with the air of one whose mind is made up and directed his gaze to the horizon.

"Are you sure, Sam?" Frodo asked. "I slept a little on the raft, and I don’t think you did."

As a matter of fact, Sam had not, but Frodo looked no more rested than he had before, so Sam was inclined to believe that his master was perhaps being generous with the truth. "I wasn’t sleepy," he said stoutly. "Besides, I’ve been sitting idle all night while both of you worked with the raft." 

This was, strictly speaking, true, as Frodo had been entrusted with one of the branches which served them for paddles, though there had not been much opportunity for him to use it in the still-narrow channel. Curufin, with the pole, had done most of the work. Nevertheless, he interjected with "You should both sleep. I will watch."

Sam had expected this, and rounded on Curufin, hands firmly on his hips, with a vehemence which Merry and Pippin would have recognised, but which rather surprised the Elf. "You will do no such thing," he said indignantly. "Of all the people who need sleep right now, you need it the most. Don’t you think I haven’t seen you wincing when you think we’re not watching. That shoulder of yours isn’t half healed yet, and if I were tall enough to pole the raft I would do it and get you sitting down for a bit, for all that I don’t trust boats as far as I can throw them."

"He’s quite right," Frodo put in unexpectedly. "Sam and I may both be tired, but you’re wounded."

Curufin looked at them with surprise and opened his mouth as though to say something, but, perhaps reminded of similar arguments with his older brothers or perhaps simply seeing that the two hobbits were not to be put off, he had the surprising good sense to close it again and yield with grace. He thanked Sam, spread out his blanket on the ground, and closed his eyes. Out of respect to their sleeping companion, Frodo and Sam continued their discussion in whispers.

"Mr. Frodo, you really ought to get some sleep. I don’t think you slept any at Treebeard’s place, and I know I did. Let me take the watch, and I promise I’ll wake you at noon."

"You will wake him at the seventh hour, and he will wake me at the second hour after noon," Curufin said firmly but without opening his eyes.

"All right, Sam, take the first watch," Frodo said, relenting. "Don’t forget to wake me, though." 

Sam noted with satisfaction that he had not said _when_ to wake him.

Curufin was rather disgruntled when Frodo woke him just before their dinner, which, Sam thought as he munched on a rock-hard slab of bread, looked depressingly like breakfast had, since there was no wood to make a fire and they had no hunters to seek out game. Though Celegorm had not been terribly cheerful company, he was at least quite reliable in terms of bringing in food, and Sam found himself looking forward to their next meeting and hoping that it was not too long delayed.

When they began that night’s journey, they found that the Entwash soon broadened out enough for them to make use of paddles as well as the pole, and as a result Sam got his first lesson in managing boats. He did not like it any better than he had expected, but consoled himself with the fact that as long as he and Frodo were paddling, Curufin was not poling and Frodo was not toying with the Ring on its chain. The following day and night were much the same as the preceding ones had been, except that Curufin, having learnt his lesson, insisted on taking the second watch. Since Frodo was taking the third and Sam much preferred it if both his master _and_ Curufin slept, he dutifully woke the Elf on time, though he was careful to extract a promise that Curufin would not take Frodo’s watch as well as his own. 

The third night, after some tricky poling and paddling and even a little stretch spent walking along the muddy bank, dragging the raft through shallow channels, the raft finally floated out onto the slow, broad current of Anduin. The pole was now useless as a pole, for the river was far too deep for it to touch bottom. Sam would have been quite satisfied by that, had he not been too busy worrying because Curufin did not immediately insist upon being given one of the paddles.

His worries were both relieved and exacerbated when, an hour or so later, Curufin did insist upon so doing. In his defence, Sam was still rather clumsy with the makeshift paddles, and one thing that the Fëanorions all shared was their inability to watch anyone bungle what they were doing. Sam took Curufin’s seat towards the rear of the raft, using the former pole as a sort of tiller, and alternating between looking ahead and behind. 

He was still sitting there in the dark hour before dawn, holding the raft steady against the current as the oarsmen rested, when he suddenly dropped his hold on the tiller and peered back intently into the darkness, all else forgotten. The raft, unguided, began to spin idly towards the eastern bank. Frodo scrambled for his paddle — they had been resting and drifting with the current for a time — as Curufin dove towards the tiller before it could be swept away by the river. "Sam," Frodo hissed, "what are you doing?"

Sam blinked, shook himself, and rubbed at his eyes. "I thought I saw something following us," he said apologetically.

Curufin gazed keenly at him. "What did you think you saw?"

"Doesn’t make sense, really," Sam replied ruefully, "but it looked like a log with eyes. It was gone when I looked again, but out of the tail of my eye I saw something dark moving along under the bank, over that way."

Curufin peered into the darkness, but shook his head after a moment. "I see nothing now," he said, "but that does not mean that nothing is there. Continue your watch and warn us if you see aught else, but if you do, be sure to keep hold of the tiller."

"Right," Sam said, and, chastened, took firm hold of the pole again.

It was well that he did so, for only a few minutes later the noise of rushing foam floated up to them on the wind, and a glimmer of white showed through the darkness. "The isle of Cair Andros," Curufin murmured. "Lie down on the raft and ship the oars. Use them only if we come too near the isle, and then push us off as softly as you can. Do not stand up. I will take the pole. Now let us hope that the men of Gondor do not keep too good a watch."

He crawled carefully to the back of the small raft and changed places with Sam, and then lay on his face, peering behind them, with one arm holding the pole steady. "Tell me if we drift to either side," he whispered. 

Then all was silent, save for the hobbits’ occasional whispers of "Left, turn left," or "Right". There was one terrible moment when they caught sight of a watchman standing on the bank of the island, peering out over the water. They stayed perfectly still, and held their breath as they floated by. For a fearful moment, Frodo could have sworn that the man’s head was moving so that his gaze could follow them, but no alarm was raised. Only once the island’s prow-like point was well behind them and the sun beginning to rise did the three travellers breathe once more.

They pitched camp on the eastern bank of the river as the first rays of dawn, just below the lower end of Cair Andros. Frodo and Curufin undid as much rope as they could from the raft, which was no easy task, for the knots were swollen with damp, while Sam sang to his little cooking-fire and bent his considerable talents towards making their meagre supplies into an adequate breakfast.

"So what do we do now?" Sam asked, as they sat around the tiny fire munching on breakfast and watching the branches that had been their raft float downstream (it had seemed disrespectful to burn them, somehow).

"Now we seek out my brother, and hope that the scouts of Gondor do not find us. If need be, I shall use the _palantír_ again. I hope that we shall not need it, for Celegorm and I have certain signs between us that will serve me for guide if once I find them, but we have need of haste and there may not be time for me to search over-long."

"None searches out this land, or leaves signs in it, but by the leave of Gondor," said a stern voice that seemed to come from nowhere.

Curufin whirled about and laid his left hand on his sword-hilt, gazing into the trees that marched almost to the river-bank. The hobbits sprang to their feet and readied their own weapons, though, following Curufin’s lead, they did not yet draw them.

"Lay down your weapons," the voice said, and a Man clad in green and brown with a mask over the lower part of his face stepped out from the shadow of a tree. "I have a company of archers with me. Draw blade and you die."

Slowly and awkwardly, Curufin undid his sword-belt with one hand and lowered the scabbard until it lay on the ground by his feet. Frodo and Sam reluctantly did the same. More men, similarly clad to the one who had first spoken, came out of the trees and swiftly took the weapons out of their reach. "What business do you have in this land?" asked he who seemed to be the spokesman.

"We are travellers on our own errand," Curufin said grimly.

_"There are no travellers in this land, only servants of the Dark Tower or the White,"_ the man replied.

_"Nevertheless,"_ Frodo spoke up, _"we are travellers, and those who claim to fight the Enemy would do well not to hinder us."_

The man looked curiously at him. "You are strange folk," he said, "and I see no lie in your faces. Nevertheless, the law of this land is that he who comes here without leave of Gondor shall die."

"We do not travel without leave of Gondor," Curufin answered proudly. "I bear letters of conduct from your Captain-General himself."

The man’s eyes widened, but neither he nor the archers whom they could now see in the growing light moved or lowered their weapons. "Show them, then," he said.

Curufin fumbled at the pouch on his belt, and produced a somewhat travel-worn scroll of parchment sealed with wax, which he held out to the man. He took it and examined the seal, but did not break it. "This seems indeed to be the seal of the Steward’s son," he said. "But that matters may be laid beyond all doubt, I shall take you to Captain Faramir. He will know of a certainty whether you speak true."

_So much for avoiding Gondor’s scouts,_ Frodo thought ruefully as green-clad men with bows surrounded them and, after giving them just enough time to break their camp, led them into the forest. Their hands were not bound, but their weapons were not returned, and if Frodo did not entirely feel himself a prisoner, he was equally certain that he was not a guest, at least not yet. Beside him, Sam trudged stoutly along, looking resigned to whatever fate awaited them. A little way ahead, Curufin walked with light tread, glancing warily from side to side as though he saw something in the forest that they did not. As Frodo watched, he stepped suddenly down into a hollow of the grass and swayed for a moment as though about to fall, but righted himself and strode on ere any save Frodo had noticed.

They walked for perhaps an hour, following neither path nor sign that Frodo could see, until they came out into a green clearing in the morning sunlight where a group of men, all dressed like their captors, seemed to be holding a court or meeting. "Mablung," said one of them, "what is this?"

The leader of their party saluted. "Captain Faramir," he said, "I apprehended these three on the banks of Anduin. They claim to be travellers and bear what seem to be letters of conduct from Lord Boromir. I have brought the letter and travellers alike to you for your judgement."

Mablung, as was evidently his name, handed over the scroll to Faramir, who examined the seal closely before breaking it, then lifted the wax carefully from the parchment and read the contents. Then he raised his eyes to the travellers, but no sign of his thoughts showed in his face. "How are you named?" he asked.

"I am called Curufin," Curufin said proudly. "These are my companions Frodo Baggins of the Shire, and Samwise Gamgee, his liegeman."

"Those names accord with what my brother has here written, and your appearance with his description of your persons. I wonder much at what is the business of which you speak, and we shall talk of it later, but for the present I shall, as my brother asks, consider you my guests and do all that is in my power to aid you. Today I and my men strike swiftly at a company of Haradrim that follow the ancient roads through Ithilien to join the forces of Sauron. Tonight we retreat to a hidden place, where we may speak more. But now, unless you wish to join the battle, I must bid you farewell for the time."

"Gladly would I join you in hindering any who go to the aid of Thauron the Accursed," Curufin said grimly, "but that my wound lets me."

"I and Samwise are no soldiers," Frodo added, "or we, too, would wish to go with you. _May the light shine upon your swords,_ Captain Faramir."

"Whatever else you may be," Faramir said, "for of that my brother does not speak fully, you are courteous folk. I hope that we shall have time to speak more fully of many things. May your errand prosper."

He turned and gave some orders to his men, in a tone too low for the hobbits to hear, but the result of them was that the travellers’ weapons were returned to them, and then that the clearing emptied, swiftly and silently, until only Mablung and one other remained. They sat with the travellers, removing their masks as the sun rose and the air warmed, and spoke in low voices. Mablung’s companion, they discovered, was named Damrod, but the two men, though courteous, were loath to speak overmuch of themselves. As the travellers would not speak clearly of their errand, there was little matter for conversation save for the progress of the war, and that all present knew most of already.

The silence had not grown oppressive, however, when off in the distance they heard horns blowing and a loud bellowing which made Mablung and Damrod look at each other and grow pale. "What on earth was that?" Sam asked, listening to a noise that sounded as though several hundred trumpeters had all taken it into their heads to trumpet at once without bothering to tune up first. 

"Mûmakil," Damrod said softly, as though fearing to be overheard. "Great beasts with tusks and trampling feet that carry war-towers upon their backs, from which the Haradrim rain arrows upon their foes. The Enemy has been gathering many to him, for unless a man braves the peril of both feet and arrows to ride near and shoot at their eyes, there is no way to slay them save stone-cast and siege engines. We drive off all we can, but he has already gathered a great host."

"Creatures with tusks? Oliphaunts?" Sam asked, in equal parts curiosity and concern.

"I have not heard them named so," Mablung replied, "but they have tusks indeed."

"What else do they look like?" 

"Grey beasts with wide ears, greater in size than any other creatures I have ever seen."

"I think they must be oliphaunts," Sam said in wonder.

"Why do you call them by that name?" Damrod asked.

Sam coloured a little, and said, "It’s just an old rhyme that I learned back in the Shire."

"Oliphaunt, of course," Frodo said. "It’s been a long time since I’ve heard that one."

Seeing that Frodo looked on him hopefully and that his larger companions looked curious — perhaps eager to be distracted from their worry for the battle — Sam rose to his feet, put his hands behind his back, and recited,  
_Grey as a mouse  
Big as a house  
Nose like a snake  
I make the earth shake  
As I tramp through the grass  
Trees crack as I pass  
With horns in my mouth  
I walk in the South  
Flapping big ears  
Beyond count of years  
I stump round and round  
Never lie on the ground  
Not even to die  
Oliphaunt am I  
Biggest of all  
Huge, old, and tall  
If ever you'd met me  
You wouldn't forget me  
If you never do  
You won't think I'm true  
But old Oliphaunt am I  
And I never lie._

"It’s mostly nonsense, probably," he added as he sat down again, rather red in the face.

"No," Damrod said, "it is not nonsense. Indeed I shall never forget them now I have seen them, and for the rest, it is like enough to be true. They are indeed big as houses, and grey, with long noses that they use to grasp things, and I have never seen one lie down."

As they had spoken, the rumour of battle had grown louder, and now they could clearly hear men crying and shouting, and the clash of arms. There was, too, a louder, lower sound, as though great hands were beating upon the ground. "The earth is shaking, all right," Frodo said.

"It is coming nearer," Mablung said. 

"Ought we to seek shelter?" Curufin asked.

"What shelter is there to seek? There is none we could reach in time. Let us hope that its riders do not see us, and be ready to move aside, and quickly, if it comes too near, or you may be trodden upon."

Even as he spoke there was a great trumpeting and thudding, and a huge, grey shape burst into the clearing, trunk aloft, _the shattered remnants of a very war-tower still clinging to its heaving back, and, high aloft, the tiny figure of a man holding desperately to its neck._ It passed them not a spear’s throw away — had they been standing they would have been thrown to the ground by the rumour of its passing — and crashed away towards the river. Sam looked at it with wide eyes. "It was an oliphaunt," he breathed. _"Nobody back home is ever going to believe this."_

The rumour of battle was fading now, and Mablung and Damrod looked ever more anxious for every minute that passed without sign of their companions. For the first time, Sam noticed how much time had passed: the sun was high in the sky and it was drawing towards noon. Only when Faramir stepped silently out of the trees did the tension that had been growing in the air begin to disperse. "Now, my friends," he said in a low voice, as though he feared to be overheard, "_I must do you a discourtesy,_ I fear, and cover your eyes, for even the folk of Gondor may not freely come to the place where we go."

When Curufin did not speak, Frodo said, "No discourtesy do I count it, Captain, for we have given you no account of yourselves. I do not blame you for your caution."

_"I am glad that you accept this willingly,"_ Faramir said. "Mablung, Damrod, cover the eyes of our guests. I would trust them to close their eyes of their own accord, but _eyes will blink, if the feet stumble. Lead them so that they do not falter._"

Now Mablung and Damrod _tied scarves over their eyes, and drew down their hoods almost to their mouths._ They steered the hobbits with firm hands upon their shoulders. Faramir himself led the blindfold Curufin by the arm into the shadow of the trees.

With his eyes covered, Frodo found his other senses sharpened. He could smell the winter-chilled earth, only just beginning to be warmed by the sun, feel the soft breeze that was beginning to bear the smells of early spring, and hear the steady footfalls of the Men who led them, Curufin’s uneven tread, Sam’s scarce-heard steps, and, more faintly, the feet of many other men walking beside them through the forest, a little way away.

When they had been walking for some time — Frodo could still see nothing, and he could feel no sun on his face or hands as they walked beneath the trees, but if he had to guess, it was now late afternoon — his guide turned him about, several times, quickly, and he lost all sense of direction. Before and behind him, he could hear that Sam and Curufin were undergoing the same process. 

The path turned steeply upwards and grew rougher. Frodo and Sam found themselves lifted entirely off their feet once or twice; ahead they could hear Curufin stumbling over the rocks and Faramir, in a soft voice, directing him in how to step in safer places. Then the slope levelled off, and Faramir said clearly, "Uncover their eyes."

Frodo and Sam pushed back their hoods and their guides untied the scarves, and then they blinked at the sight which met and dazzled their eyes. What they saw was a waterfall, but they seemed to be looking at a curtain of ever-changing jewels, flickering with an inner fire or lit by the light of a sunset, which hung over a great window in a stone wall. "This is Henneth Annûn, the Window of Sunset," Faramir said. "Alas, there is no king’s hall within to match its splendour, but here we may pass the night in safety and speak of what errand it is which is so urgent that it brings you to the very walls of the Enemy’s land and so secret that my brother will not write of it."

Even as he spoke, the fire faded from the waterfall, and they turned away to follow him into a cave, rough-hewn but dry and well-stocked with food and water. It was the hour for dinner, and places were set for them beside Faramir at a table which, though it bore no cloth, was clean and well-made.

While they ate, Faramir asked no questions, rather listening to the reports brought in by his men of the skirmish with the Easterlings earlier in the day. It seemed that all the party which they had attacked save for the great mûmak had been accounted for, and the losses of the Rangers had been comparatively few. Curufin listened with stern satisfaction in his white face. 

One of the reports of the last scouts to enter before the evening guard was set made Sam perk up his ears in interest, though he could not have said why: the man said that he had seen no sign of orcs or Men save his companions in the forest, but that, as dusk was falling, he had seen what looked to be a black squirrel with no tail. "At any rate," he said, "it climbed the trees like one, though I have never seen a squirrel of such size."

_"They have black squirrels in Mirkwood, it is said,"_ Faramir said thoughtfully, "but it is not said that they have spread to these lands."

_"We do not want the escapes of Mirkwood in Ithilien,"_ said the scout with a doubtful glance at the travellers.

"No, indeed, and I would not have received any such," Faramir replied with a slight edge to his voice.

There was silence around the table after that, until, after supper, Faramir motioned his guests into a small alcove that branched off from the main cave. "Now," he said courteously, "let us speak of the business which brings you into the lands under my watch under such strange circumstances."

Frodo shifted uncomfortably. Sam fixed his eyes on Faramir’s boots and assumed a meditative expression. Curufin gazed directly into Faramir’s eyes, and the Man met his gaze with unwavering firmness. "Has your brother told you nothing of our errand?"

"The letters of conduct you bear are not for me, but for any servant of Gondor, as I deem you know well. They tell me nothing save that your errand is one of great secrecy and haste and that you are to be given safe-conduct, supplies, and guidance on your way towards Mordor by the order of the Captain-General of Gondor, whose authority is second only to the Steward’s. There is also a letter to me alone, sealed with my brother’s own personal signet, wherein he recommends you to my especial care and hints that your errand offers some secret hope to those of us who fight against the Enemy."

"Why are you asking us all these questions then?" Sam asked suspiciously.

Faramir turned from Curufin and gazed intently at the hobbit, who gazed back at him with equal parts wariness and defiance in his eyes. "Because I can better aid you if I know your errand, Samwise, liegemen of the house of Baggins."

Frodo looked long and keenly at Faramir, who met his eyes steadily, and thought of what Sam had told him of Boromir’s suggestions that perhaps he should carry the ring. But then he thought also of what had happened after that, of Maedhros and Maglor’s warning and Boromir’s repentance. _If he wished to take the Ring from us, what hope would we have? Two hobbits and a wounded Elf against how many Men with bows? But then, what if he suspects already? What can I do?_

Faramir seemed to guess some of what he thought, for he said, "You have naught to fear from me, Master Baggins. My brother has asked aid of me for you, and aid you shall have, whether you wish to tell me of your errand or not. I ask only that I may aid you the better, and also, I confess, because it is strange to me that three such as you should seek to enter the land of the Enemy by stealth. If you do not tell me, I shall not press you, and if you do tell me, I will not interfere with your errand. You have my word, and the men of Gondor do not break their word once given."

Frodo turned to Curufin, and the Elf nodded to him slightly. "I bear…an…heirloom," Frodo said at last, "one of great power, which the Enemy might use to great evil were he to regain it. We go to destroy it."

"Heirlooms are curious things," Faramir said softly, as though thinking, "and perilous ones, the more so when they are of the kind that can only be destroyed in the place of their making."

"How did you know that?" Sam asked, evidently still not entirely at ease with Faramir and his cave full of tall Men.

"If this thing could be destroyed anywhere save in the land of the Enemy, it would be thither that you bent your steps, not to Mordor itself. And such _heirlooms_ as your liege speaks of often have curious memories of the folk who made them and the places wherein they were made."

"Then you know what it is," Curufin said quietly, from where he was leaning against the wall.

"I could make a guess," Faramir said.

"And what would your guess be?" Frodo asked, both wary and curious.

"That you bear the Enemy’s Ring. _I do not ask if my guess is bad or good,_ but I wish you to know that I would lay no hand to such a thing of evil _even if it lay by the side of the road_ for the taking."

"You have asked for no answer," Frodo said, coming suddenly to a decision, "but I will give you one, for if you were a man who would take this thing from me, you would not scruple to have a traveller searched on suspicion. I do indeed bear the Enemy’s Ring, and no aid do I ask of you, for there is none you can give, save a little food and then swift conveyance to the borders of Mordor, where we hope to meet Curufin’s brother, who will be our guide past the mountains."

Faramir gazed from Curufin to Frodo to Sam, and said bluntly, "Not all of your party can endure even the journey to the borders of the Black Land, much less the passage of Ephel Duath."

Curufin pushed himself away from the wall, and stood perfectly straight. "And I deem that your brother would have no kind words for me were I to deliver you to him in such a state," Faramir added with a faint smile.

"You have met Celegorm?" Curufin asked eagerly, stepping forward suddenly, and then stumbling as he moved. 

Faramir sprang to his feet and steadied the swaying Elf before he could fall. "Yes," he said, "and I will lead you to him, for he has given me signs to follow, and I now have no doubt of either his tale or yours. But you are in no condition to join so perilous a venture as that which Frodo and Samwise are about to set out upon."

"He’s right," Sam said, supporting Faramir for the first time. "You’ve been running yourself to the ragged edge ever since Gandalf disappeared. _Don’t think I haven’t noticed._ You don’t sleep unless we don’t give you any choice, and you haven’t been resting your arm neither. You’re even worse than Mr. Frodo."

Curufin might have argued with them were it not that he was leaning on Faramir’s arm, and evidently would not have been able to stand upright without its support. Instead, he asked, "Do you know where to find Celegorm?"

"I do," Faramir replied. "He has set up a temporary camp not far from this place. Tomorrow I shall take you there. Tonight, ere you rest, our healer will tend to your shoulder."

"Very well," Curufin said quietly. 

Frodo and Sam were shown to a place where they could spread their bedrolls, and Frodo found it surprisingly easy to sleep, despite the presence of Faramir and all his men, here with a roof over his head for the first time in weeks. Salchîr, the healer of Faramir’s company, seized upon Curufin almost as soon as they stepped out of the alcove and set to work on the deep, ugly wound, and before Frodo went to sleep, he heard the man hiss in surprise and say grimly, "There is little that I can do for such a wound as this here. What was done to it?"

Curufin, by his voice, was both exhausted and slightly annoyed. "Cauterised it," he said flatly.

"I can do little more than keep your arm still and ease the pain with what I have here; you must go to the Houses of Healing."

That was the last thing Frodo heard before sleep took him. He was woken unexpectedly and uncomfortably in the middle of the night by a crash so loud that his first panicked thought was that the ceiling of the cave had fallen in and they were trapped. The hissing of whispering voices from the main cave reassured him that that had not happened, and the second crash, accompanied as it was by a blinding flash of red-tinged light through the window-falls, revealed to him that the noise that had woken him had been a crash of thunder such as he had never heard before.

He rose to his feet quickly — he had not undressed to sleep, and was grateful for it now — and padded softly into the main cave, where he found Faramir, Curufin, and several of the men discussing what had happened in the softest voices that could be heard over the now-torrential rain.

"What has happened?" Frodo asked, just as a longer flash of livid light shone through the falls and turned them sickly green.

His question was answered by the watchman who put his head through the door to announce, "This is _no weather of the world_. Lighting goes up from Orodruin, and now there is a fell light issuing from the Morgul Vale."

"A signal," Faramir said grimly.

He turned towards the place where the hobbits slept, only to halt when he saw Frodo and Sam already awake. "The war for which we have long prepared is beginning sooner than I feared," he said. "If this is the signal I deem it to be, all the armies of Mordor and Morgul will soon be on the march. We must leave this place at once or be surrounded and overrun." He turned to Curufin. "I have arranged a meeting-place with your brother in case of great need. He will no doubt have turned his steps thither already. We shall meet him there, and he shall take Frodo and Sam to whatever place of safety he knows. From there we shall cross the Anduin and return to Gondor. I and my men can do no more good here."

Frodo turned to roll up his blankets, only to find that Sam had done it already and was handing him his pack, which was somewhat heavier than it had been when he last lifted it. Faramir, he guessed, had been true to his promise to provide them with food, and, through some hint of foresight, had seen it done before he retired. Frodo thanked his stars for it, for there was no time to pack anything now. He pulled the hood of his cloak over his face as some protection against the sheets of water which were falling from the heavens. There was no time for blindfolds, nor could they have risked attempting the narrow, rocky path in the rain without sight. Following Curufin’s cloaked shoulders, he paused before the doorway and braced himself as the fierce wind drove water into his face. "Of course Mordor would have weather like this," Sam said wearily from behind him. "Couldn’t it have waited until morning?"

Someone snorted in grim amusement from behind them, and a voice that most likely belonged to Mablung said, "War is rarely convenient, my halfling friend."

"Come," said Faramir from the front of the column, "we cannot delay any longer." 

Frodo stepped out into the rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Curufin has _lembas_ because Celebrían gave some to all of the Sons of Fëanor before they left Valinor, btw. I think that was mentioned in Chapter 3.
> 
> I know Elves can rest their minds while still on their feet, but I am assuming that that doesn't work quite as well when the Elf in question has recently been shot and is still healing.
> 
> Faramir persists in calling Sam Frodo's liegeman because Curufin, whose vocabulary is a bit archaic and who also wanted him to sound impressive, introduced him that way, and he acts like it.


	23. The Fences of Mordor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The grandmother of all thunderstorms breaks on the borders of Mordor as Faramir and the Rangers retreat to Gondor and Frodo and Sam seek a pass over the mountains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm breaking my pattern here so that we don't get any more flashbacks to events that happened before the main thread of the story, so this is a direct continuation of the previous chapter. I'll resume my usual habit of hopping from story to story after this.

Only a little way downstream from the falls of Henneth Annûn, Faramir halted by a bend in the river. Short as the way had been, Frodo’s cloak was soaked right through and dripping water over his face and down the back of his neck. Faramir called out something in Sindarin, the wind whipping away the words before Frodo could catch them, and a similarly hooded and dripping figure stepped out of the trees where before Frodo would have sworn there was nothing but empty air.

Wound or no wound, Curufin found his way to the front of the column in moments, his good hand extended in greeting. Celegorm grasped it with his own left hand silently, and then pulled his brother in for a brief and careful embrace. Then he stepped back, looked Curufin over critically as though he were an unsatisfactory piece of metalwork that had just come out of the forge, and asked brusquely, "What have you done to yourself, brother?"

Curufin sighed and ignored the question. "We have little time, Celegorm. I must hand the halflings over to your care, and then I go to Gondor with Captain Faramir and his men."

Celegorm turned to Faramir, and said, "Tell me you have had your healer tend to him."

Curufin opened his mouth indignantly, but Faramir spoke before he could. "I have, and when we reach Gondor I shall see him taken to the Houses of Healing. He was wounded in the shoulder by an orc-arrow some days ago, and there is only so much that can be done here."

Celegorm shook his head with a long-suffering expression. "I might have known you would do something reckless as soon as I let you out of my sight, little brother," he said with an air of affected weariness.

Curufin spluttered indignantly, but found no words, and so Celegorm continued, "Captain, look after him for me."

"I shall to the best of my ability," Faramir replied with a smile.

"What is it that the mortals say about pots and kettles, brother?" Curufin asked silkily.

Behind him, Sam stifled a snort. Celegorm actually smiled, but made no reply. It was Faramir who broke the silence, saying ruefully, "I must beg your forgiveness for cutting a meeting of brothers so short, but I and my men must to Gondor at once, and so we must bid you farewell now."

Celegorm clasped Curufin’s hand again, briefly, then beckoned the hobbits to come and stand beside him, which they did. Faramir’s men were already disappearing into the woods and rain as Frodo and Sam looked up to meet Curufin’s gaze, and found that they had nothing to say. "Thank you," Frodo finally managed. "I don’t think we would ever have made it this far without you." 

"I would not be so sure of that," Curufin returned. "You are a hardier folk than you know, I deem. Take care of my foolish brother for me."

"I’ll do that," Sam said stoutly. "And don’t you forget to take care of yourself too."

"If you command it, Samwise, I shall obey," Curufin said with a smile, leaving Sam stammering in confusion.

Then Faramir came to stand beside him, and said softly, "You go on an errand which I will not say is less perilous than it is, but, strange though it seems to my own ears to say this, I do not think it a hopeless one. Travellers’ blessings may have no power in the Black Land, but you have mine for whatever good it may do you. Farewell, Celegorm, and may the woods always be friendly to you. Farewell, Frodo and Samwise. Know that _the goodwill of all good men_ goes with you, even if they know it not."

With that, he bowed and disappeared after his men. "Good hunting, brother," Curufin said quietly, and then he, too, was gone. 

Celegorm turned on his heel at once and strode away. Frodo and Sam settled their packs more firmly onto their shoulders, pulled their hoods down securely, and followed him. Rain or no rain, he set a hard pace, and they did not find it easy to do so. He was silent for perhaps half an hour after they had parted from Faramir and Curufin, and the continual crashing of thunder drowned all other sounds. Then he began to speak abruptly. "I have found a pass which will take us over the borders of Mordor as safely as may be in this land," he said grimly, "and we can be there in perhaps two days, if you are willing to travel swiftly. Our way will pass through Morgul Vale, and that evil place I shall warn you of now, for when we come to it there may not be time for speech. Do not either eat or drink of anything that comes from that accursed place, or no craft of healing save, perhaps, that of Valinor, will serve you. The pass will try your strength and patience, but it is after we reach the border that the true peril will begin." 

He ceased to speak for some time, and the hobbits thought that he had made an end, but then he spoke again. "Thauron’s Nazgûl depend for their power upon rings that were made by my family’s craft. I wish that he may be damned to the Void for twisting my nephew’s work so, but, greatly as I hate it, he has given us an advantage that he did not expect, for I can hide myself from them. As long as we are in Morgul Vale or in the border-lands, neither Thauron nor his servants will perceive me. When we cross the border, however, that protection will be gone, for Thauron alone forged the One, and its power still commands in Mordor. I cannot come with you there, for if I were to accompany you, you might as well light a bonfire and sound a horn to summon every orc ever spawned in Mordor. I can advise you where and how best to direct your steps, but no more."

Frodo and Sam looked at each other in surprise, and then slowly Frodo’s face settled into a look of resignation and Sam’s into something like defiance. "Well, then," said Sam, "let’s get on with it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for posting such a short chapter this week, but I needed to wrap up that loose end before we went any further. I'm adding another deleted scene to make up for it.


	24. A Time to Mourn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rohan mourns Théodred. Gandalf explains his sudden reappearance. The problem of Saruman is considered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit to Mr_Bultitude for proofreading and helping me get un-stuck.
> 
> Also, warning for some slightly disturbing imagery in the paragraph beginning, "Looking up to see whence the sound had come, even steadfast Éomer blanched..." See the end-notes for a brief summary of what you'll miss if you skip it.

_These were our children who died for our lands: they were dear in our sight.  
We have only the memory left of their home-treasured sayings and laughter.  
The price of our loss shall be paid to our hands, not another’s hereafter.  
Neither the Alien nor Priest shall decide on it. That is our right.  
_But who shall return us the children?  
— Rudyard Kipling, _The Children_

No lord of Rohan before him went ever to his long home so well attended as Théodred son of Théoden, Prince of Rohan and Second Marshall of the Mark. Three captains of Rohan and three of Lothlórien bore his body on its bier out to the grave-mounds with their snowy cloaks of _simbelmynë_ at the head of the long column of his riders who fell, foremost in death as he was in life. Elves of Lórien and Imladris, men of Rohan and Arnor, two of the mighty Sons of Fëanor, and one grim-faced hobbit, all gathered to do him honour.

Maglor Fëanorion himself, greatest of all the singers of the Noldor, sang lament for him and his fallen brethren as the bearers marched slowly by in long procession, and never before had he done so for any Man. But greatest honour of all was shown him and his companions by the Lord and Lady of Lórien, Celeborn and Galadriel, for they and all the folk of Lórien after them knelt before those who had died for them as Maglor’s voice rolled out clear and lone over the plains of Rohan, weaving a melody of such beauty and such grief that those who heard thought that never before had they known sorrow.

When Maglor had sung his lament and those who wept were quietened, Celeborn and Galadriel came and bowed low before Théoden, and Celeborn said, "Théoden King, we owe to you and all yours a debt that cannot be paid. Seldom indeed has it been that Men rode out to the aid of Elves, and long had it been since any aid came from our land to yours, and yet you did not hesitate to aid us. We shall honour and lament your fallen through all the ages of the world, and their memory will be preserved both here and in the Blessed Realm whither we will one day sail, for they gave their lives to save our people." 

And Galadriel spoke after him, "Great wonder and grief has always been ours at the passing of mortals, for they go beyond the circles of the world and do not return. Greater is our wonder and our grief now, for those who lie here chose to take that chance for our sake, and we shall not forget them."

"Rise, my friends," Théoden replied. "Your kinsman freed me from the foul enchantments of Saruman, and should I not have ridden to the aid of his folk? Without him, I fear that my son would have gone to his doom nevertheless, and knowing that he left behind him a mindless father and a kingless country open to the mercy of its foes, defended by Éomer alone. I am proud," he said, and his voice failed for a moment, "proud of my son and of how he met his fate. He goes to take his place in the halls of our fathers, and he shall be counted among the greatest of them — indeed, as I have lived, I deem that his place shall be higher than mine, for he routed the forces of Isengard at the head of his men and rode to face a Balrog unfaltering. Long shall his charge be sung by the minstrels of Rohan. I can only hope to make such an end."

Once more Celeborn and Galadriel bowed, and then they and their folk withdrew for a distance, to the sound of many fair Elvish voices echoing Maglor’s lament, that the Rohirrim might mourn their own without strangers. 

All the while Merry had stood behind Théoden King with a pale, grim face, arrayed with the helm and shield that the Rohirrim had given him and still bearing his barrow-blade, and he had wept in silence to hear Maglor’s lament. Now as the Eldar withdrew, he stood there still, for he had not left the king’s side since the battle’s end, though he had spoken naught, and Théoden seemed for the first time to notice him. "Master Holbytla," he said, not unkindly, but as one who would rather be alone, "what do you do here?"

"I promised him, my lord," Merry said in a voice of tears, "that I would look after you. It was _almost the last thing he ever said._ I mean to do it."

At those words, Théoden wept openly at last. Éomer and Éowyn and Merry stood by him, and made no shift to hide their tears.

Gandalf and Merry alone had remained with the mourning Rohirrim as all the others withdrew, but Gandalf held a little aside from the mourners, and none dared approach him, for the tale of his appearance from the woods of Fangorn, shining like the midday sun in the night, had spread through all the towns and byres of Rohan like fire. All looked on him with reverence, and some with fear. He remained thus apart until Théoden lifted his stern face from his hands once more to gaze on the grave of his son. Then Aragorn saw Gandalf approach and speak with the king, though none save those who stood nearest heard what they said. Théoden’s face grew white with wrath, but not at Gandalf, for he clasped the wizard’s hand ere he strode away towards Meduseld, fists clenched and eyes blazing. Éowyn and Éomer and Merry followed after him with grim faces. Gandalf turned away and sought out Aragorn, who had been watching with an expression both of concern and curiosity. "I do not presume…" he began to say, but Gandalf spoke ere he could finish.

"It is no secret that I have spoken, my friend. Théodred might yet be alive had I arrived a little sooner to the battle. I wished to tell Théoden King that it was no delay upon the road that caused his son’s death. I arrived no sooner because I was, myself, dead."

Aragorn stared at him in incredulity. "You died? But how then do you walk in Middle-Earth among the living?"

"I was sent back," Gandalf said. "I died in the performance of the task for which I was sent to Middle-Earth, but I died with that task unfinished, and so I was returned to you to finish it."

Aragorn gazed on Gandalf with wondering eyes, but spoke no question. Gandalf answered the thought he had not spoken. "It was Saruman who slew me," he said grimly. "Long time we fought by the banks of Isen after his orcs ambushed us. I sent the hobbits away, and Curufin too, though I do not think he would have gone had he not been wounded by an arrow. Then Saruman came. He spoke to me first, and renewed his attempts to gain my allegiance that had prefigured his imprisonment of me at the top of Orthanc. But I said to him that _the guest who has escaped from the roof will think twice before he comes in again by the door,_ for his words rang as hollow then as they had before. Then his anger was kindled, and he struck at me with his staff, and so the battle began. Were any able to endure to watch us, it must have seemed to them as though cloud and fire and lightning and thunder all smote together in wrath upon the river-bank, and yet were not spent. How long we fought I do not know. Two days, perhaps? We were both grievously wounded, but in the end he had the better of me. He must have crawled back to Isengard to lick his wounds…and I? _I strayed beyond thought and time,_ beyond the bounds of the world itself, until I was sent back."

He was silent for some time, as though musing on things he would not speak, but took up the thread of his story again after a little while. "Gwaihir the Windlord had seen the great smoke of our battle from afar, and he came warily but with speed to see what it was that had befallen in Nan Curunir. So it was, that a little while after I woke on the bank of Isen, robed anew in white, he swept down out of the sky to greet me. He spoke to me of the fall of Lothlórien and of the great march of orcs out of Isengard to meet those who had fled that fair kingdom’s ruin, and said that they were like to meet on the borders of Fangorn Forest. 

'Fangorn?' said I. 'Then to Fangorn himself, if you will, you must bear me, and with all speed.' 

'To Fangorn I will bear you,' said he, 'or further, if you will, for you feel _as light as a feather in my claw.'_

"And so it was that he set me down in the middle of Entmoot. The Ents were already mightily disturbed by a wounded Elf having come through their forest barely a day before me, accompanied by two hobbits, and when they heard what I had to say of Saruman and the orcs that were marching along their borders, that put paid to the rest of their doubts at once, and with a few directions from Gwaihir, I set off at the head of a column of Ents to teach Saruman to whom the forest really belongs. And the rest you know."

"That," said Maglor, who had come up to listen, "is a tale worthy of many songs, Olórin."

Gandalf bowed his thanks, and said, "If you ever write them, I shall gladly hear them. But now, I think, it is time to turn our attention to what the sequel shall be. Théoden King has gone up to Meduseld to plan vengeance upon Saruman, but Saruman is not the only problem we must consider. There are a great many questions that need answering, and I believe it is time to confer with our allies in Gondor. Maglor, if you would find Elrond, I will retrieve Celeborn and Galadriel."

Only a little while later, such a council of war was convened as had not been since the Last Alliance. Théoden King stood between Éomer, his heir and sister son, and Éowyn, his sister-daughter, and a little behind them stood Meriadoc, liege of Rohan. Celeborn and Galadriel of Lórien stood opposite them, flanked by Elrond of Rivendell and Maglor Fëanorion upon one side and Aragorn with his foster-brothers Elladan and Elrohir upon the other. Amrod was not present, for he had not yet been released by the healers. He was none too pleased about it, but Elrond had overridden his protests. Gandalf Greyhame leaned against one of the hall’s great wooden pillars and sent rings of blue-grey smoke floating up towards the ceiling as he gazed thoughtfully at the maps which lay upon the table before him, and Halbarad of the Rangers stood beside him. 

Ere any words were spoken, however, a messenger strode into the hall and bowed. "Ceorl, what news?" Théoden asked sternly.

"A company of horsemen, perhaps two hundred strong, rides towards Edoras, my lord," Ceorl said. "They will be here within the hour."

"What manner of men are they?" Théoden asked. 

"The folk of Lórien say that they are not men at all, but Elves of Mirkwood, and one short Man with them."

"What would the Elves of Mirkwood seek in Rohan?" Éomer asked.

"Our hope," Maglor said in answer, "was to unite the armies of Middle-Earth to strike at Sauron and perhaps cripple him ere he could strike at us. We were not swift enough to carry out our whole design, but my brother Amras, so far as we know, reached the forest of Mirkwood in safety, and he would strive as I have to hinder and hurt the Enemy so far as he is able and urge his allies to do the same. I deem that he has sent us such aid as he could spare, or such as could reach us quickly."

"Two hundred horse is little enough," Théoden said grimly.

"Two hundred archers of Mirkwood," Gandalf replied gently, "are a force which it does not do to estimate by heads. And in such times as these, _every little is a gain._"

"Well said," Théoden replied. "When they reach us, let their captain be brought hither as swiftly as may be."

"If this is to be done, I hold," Elrond said, "that we await their coming ere we begin our council of war in earnest, for they may bear news which it would behove us to know ere we made plans. Lord Maglor, you have said that it is needful for you to speak to your brothers and learn what may be learned of them. I deem that now such a conference would be timely."

"Timely indeed," said Maglor, drawing out his _palantír_ and stepping a little way away from the rest of the company. Had any watched him, they would have seen that for a while, he merely gazed at the ever-shifting light at the heart of the black stone with his brows furrowed. Then his expression cleared, as though some worry had been relieved, but it swiftly blackened again, and when, some time later, he lowered the stone and strode back towards the rest of the counsellors, his face was stern and his eyes hard. "There is some good news," he said, "and some ill. The good is that Frodo and Samwise pursue their errand in safety, guided by Celegorm." 

Relief showed in Gandalf’s face, and Aragorn’s also. Théoden looked his question at Maglor, who answered only, "They go on a secret errand for the war. More I cannot say at present. But now for the ill: Thauron’s forces have gathered with great swiftness, and now they are to be unleashed upon Gondor. The Corsairs of Umbar have struck at Dol Amroth and the sea-cities, drawing away aid from Minas Tirith, and even were this not so, no aid could reach the Tower of Guard before the enemy.

"Worse yet, the Steward of Gondor has fallen to madness. He has struck at his own son, wounding him nigh to the death — indeed his life is yet in doubt — and been in his turn slain. Boromir now rules in Minas Tirith, and the city is readying for siege as swiftly as may be, but the forces which ride out against them are so great as to render their defence all but hopeless. We must aid Minas Tirith, and that swiftly."

Théoden looked up from his maps at that. "Saruman’s forces slew my son and hindered the aid that might have saved him. I will ride against Gondor when Théodred’s blood is avenged."

It was at that moment that Ceorl entered the hall once more, followed by two Elves and one Dwarf, all covered in the dust of the road. "Prince Legolas and Captain Deryn of Mirkwood, and Gimli, son of Glóin," he said.

"I bid you all welcome to Rohan," Théoden said courteously.

"My thanks, Théoden King," Legolas replied. "We come bearing news of great battle and victory in Mirkwood."

"Your news is most welcome," said Théoden. "We are new-come from victory ourselves, though it was a costlier one than ever I wished to fight, and hold council now for what is best to be done next. Will you join us?"

"Gladly," said Gimli.

"What news of Mirkwood?" Celeborn asked.

"Sauron struck at us from Dol Guldor with a great army of orcs," Legolas said "but they were ill led and worse disciplined, and we repelled them without difficulty thanks to the valour of Caranthir, together with Grimbeorn and his men. The true threat was from the Nazgûl on their flying beasts. Three of them broke through the canopy of trees, and were it not for Amras things might have gone ill with us, but he sprang from his tree and fought the three hand-to-hand and slew them all, though he himself was wounded by one of their foul flying steeds in the fray."

"Wounded?" Maglor asked. "How badly?"

"He’ll limp for a while," Gimli replied, "but if the way he argued with the healers was any indication, he’s quite all right."

Maglor nodded his thanks, and Legolas continued, "Then your brothers, Lord Maglor, had news of what was about to be in Lórien, and we took counsel for what must be done next, for Dol Guldor had suffered a great blow, and loath were we to give up our advantage. In the end, such of our folk as could be horsed were sent to the aid of Lórien under Deryn’s command, with myself and Gimli, for we have a game that is not ended. Caranthir and Glóin seek the Lonely Mountain, which we hear is soon to be besieged, to offer what aid they may. My father means to lead the main body of our army against Dol Guldor, with your brother’s aid, as soon as may be. Indeed, they were already arming for the march when we set out."

"This is good news indeed," said Gandalf, "and we have need of that now, for the news which has but now come from Gondor is evil." And he told all that Maglor had learned from Maedhros and Celegorm of how the outlands of Gondor were beset by the corsairs, and Minas Tirith herself about to be besieged, her Steward slain and his son gravely wounded. 

"What are we to do, then?" Legolas asked when he had ended.

"That we have not yet decided," Gandalf replied. "Gondor is in sore need of aid, but Saruman was not at the battle under the eaves of Fangorn, and he yet lived when I left him. What he may do if left unwatched in Isengard, I do not know, but it might come to much evil."

"I have business with Saruman that will not wait," said Theoden grimly.

"There is also this," Maglor said. "The armies of which my brother Celegorm spoke are greater than any this age has yet seen. Even were all Rohan to ride to Gondor at once, we should not have surety of raising the siege. Valiant are the swords of Rivendell, and strong the bows of Mirkwood, but there are too few of them both."

"In other words," Gimli said bluntly, _"we need more men."_

"Where shall we find them," Halbarad asked, "Save in the outlands of Gondor? Thither I say we should send our aid, for the corsairs may be repelled and a great army march to the aid of Minas Tirith."

"Wise counsel," said Elrond, "but I fear it shall not be swift enough for Gondor’s need. She has stout men and a mighty captain, but the mightiest man can only be in one place at once, and her defenders are few."

"There are others of whom you have not spoken," Galadriel said, speaking for the first time from where she stood beside Celeborn. 

All faces turned towards her. "Of whom would you speak, lady?" Aragorn asked respectfully.

"Of _those who dwell in the mountain,"_ she said. "The Oathbreakers have waited long for the King of Gondor to call upon them."

Théoden’s face, already grim, fell further. "The last word which came from that place to us was that the way made by the dead is kept by the dead _until the time come,"_ he said, speaking as one who brings to light what should be left forever silent. "And no man can know when the time has come." 

"Save by trying the door," Aragorn said. "Our forces as they now stand cannot raise the siege of Gondor, and if Gondor falls then Rohan will follow. Nowhere else among the free peoples does strength lie to resist Sauron. Shall we then despair? Let the Elves take the roads to the sea, and close the doors of our fortresses in hopes that they are too little for the Enemy to notice?"

"I shall not take that road," Maglor said. "Nor shall my brothers."

"I shall not be shut up in a fortress, or taken _like an old badger in a trap,_" Théoden said. "If death comes for me, I shall _ride out to meet it head-on."_

"And yet all your valour will not avail without strength," Gandalf said. "Aragorn is right. The time has come for the way to be tried."

"I, at least, will try it," Aragorn said, "for if the oathbreakers who swore to Gondor will answer to any man, they will answer to me. But I ask no man to come with me upon this errand."

"If you tread that road, brother, you shall not do it alone," said Elladan.

"Nor will the Rangers abandon their captain in his errand," Halbarad added.

Aragorn smiled upon them, and for that moment his face lost its grimness and was very fair to look upon. "Then I shall go well-accompanied, whatever fate I find. To the Dwimorberg I will ride, and lead the Dead to the outlands of Gondor."

"It seems to me," said Legolas, "that here lies a fair resolution to our game, Gimli Glòin’s son."

"What do you mean?" Gimli asked.

"There will be foes aplenty for the both of us on the road that Lord Aragorn rides. Or do you fear the shades of men long dead?"

"The dead under the mountain are not mere shadows," Théoden said. "It is no shame to fear what should be feared."

"I’m not afraid of any ghosts," Gimli declared stoutly. 

"Then it is settled," Legolas said. "Lord Aragorn, will you accept two more members for your company? For I do not think it wise to take away two hundred archers from the main battle, nor need we bring an army who go rather to seek one."

"Gladly," said Aragorn with a smile. "Be ready to ride tomorrow at dawn, for this is an errand that brooks no delay."

"Always riding," said Gimli gloomily. "Axes were meant to _hew orc-necks, not shave the scalps of Men._ Can we fight no battles on foot?"

"I think that when you find yourself in battle, your horse will be as glad as any to set you on the ground," Éomer answered with a laugh.

Gimli gazed at the young Rider in disapproval, but said nothing. 

"What, then, of the main siege? And what of Saruman?" Elrond asked. "It will not be less than five days, at the soonest, before Aragorn reaches Gondor, and that is if all goes well. Some relief should be sent at once. And Théoden King speaks wisely of Saruman. He should not be left un-dealt with upon our flank to work whatever mischief he pleases."

"What forces do you deem that Saruman had in Isengard, Mithrandir, when you were there?" Maglor asked.

"I could not easily count them, for they were hidden in tunnels beneath the valley floor, and I was imprisoned upon the very top of the tower," Gandalf replied. "How deep the tunnels and caves went, I could not say. But at the very least there must have been room for five thousands to be billeted within the ring of Isengard."

"We destroyed more than that at the battle by Fangorn Forest," Éomer said. 

"He will not have sent his whole army to the battle," Gandalf said warningly. "Some, at least, he will have kept in Isengard to guard it."

"But will we need an army to force our entry, or will a few stout swords be enough?"

Gandalf thought for a moment. "Saruman is very cunning," he said at last, "but he is also over-confident. I do not think that we will need an army to deal with him. Not if we choose our companions well."

Maglor stood forward, a storm gathering in his grey eyes. "I will go," he said grimly. "I, too, would see Saruman’s crimes avenged."

"I will go," Elrond said. "The White Council was our great hope in the past age, and Saruman was its chief. I do not take his betrayal lightly."

"Then the folk of Rivendell will follow you, and I with them," Glorfindel added.

"My King goes, and I shall not remain behind," Éomer said. "And the éored of my house will ride with me."

"I will go, if you’ll have me," Merry said suddenly. "I’d like to see justice done on Saruman myself."

"I will go," Gandalf said. "The White Council should see to its own, and you may need a wizard with your party."

"It is settled, then," said Théoden. "And we shall depart as soon as all is in readiness. But I shall call up all those of Rohan who have not yet come to the weapontake first, that they may be ready to ride for Gondor upon my return."

"Who shall take heed for the people of Rohan until our return, lord," Éomer asked, "if all the house of Éorl goes to take reckoning of Saruman?"

"Well thought of," said Théoden in reply, "but you and I are not all the house of Éorl that survives. Éowyn, will you take in charge the muster and the people of Rohan, together with the care of the folk of Lórien who are our guests, until we return to ride for Gondor?"

Naught could be read in Éowyn’s eyes as she looked at Théoden then, but she said, "If you bid me do so, my lord, I shall."

"I do bid it," said Théoden, "for there is none to whom with greater surety I could entrust the safety of my people. When our full force is gathered, take all those who cannot fight into the fortress of Dunharrow. Reserve those Riders you deem necessary to the defence of Rohan, and send all the rest towards Gondor. We will follow them as swiftly as may be once our business at Isengard is done. But now the day grows towards evening, and I have given no reception to my newest guests."

The council of war ended, arrangements were made for the folk of Mirkwood to stay the night and ride upon the morrow, and the counsellors went to ready themselves for the next day’s work. Éowyn, however, followed after Aragorn as he strode down after Halbarad to set the Rangers in readiness for their ride on the morrow. Hearing her light step, he halted and turned to face her. In the lowering dusk, the white of her gown stood out brilliant against the dark, and the red light of sunset set a strange fire in her hair and her eyes. "My lord," she said, "why do you go upon this venture?"

"What do you mean, my lady?" he asked.

"You go to seek paths which slay all who take them. Our people have lost their king’s heir already, and learned that he whom they long trusted as an ally has betrayed them. They are a stout folk, but there are those who speak words of fear, and those who hear them. Many look for hope now to those who have ridden out of the past to aid them: to you, and to the Elves. Why will you take that hope from them and ride upon an errand without hope?"

"I see no hope for our battle, lady, unless I ride upon this errand. It was to the king of Gondor that the oathbreakers swore their oath, and I am the right heir of Gondor. If any man can command them, that man is I. I can render greater aid to Gondor and Rohan alike thus than I could if I rode with Théoden King to raise the siege. But why do you ask this, and why now?"

"In the council," she replied, "I held my tongue because my uncle spoke all that I would say before Rohan’s guests."

"And what would you say to this guest of Rohan that you would not say in council, then?"

"That Rohan has lost enough brave men of late and will lose more in battle soon without sending away such a captain at the head of such a force to seek out death," she answered angrily, and then turned and strode back towards Meduseld with her head high.

Aragorn looked after her with wonder and some little worry in his eyes. After a little, he turned back along his way to follow after Halbarad, thinking on what he had seen as he walked.

The next morning, the Rangers set out at dawn, led by Aragorn and accompanied by Legolas and Gimli. The royal house of Rohan came forth to bid them farewell, but Éowyn, who was now clad in mail and girt with a sword, gave no sign of what had passed between her and Aragorn the night before, though she watched them with worried eyes as they rode out of sight. There was little time for any to worry for those who had gone, however, for now the main army of Rohan was arming for a long ride and a great battle after, and their King was preparing to ride to Isengard with all speed that very day. Very soon, it was Éowyn who bade farewell to her King and her brother, and stood alone on the porch of Meduseld to watch them ride away towards Isengard and Saruman. 

Gandalf rode beside Théoden at the head of the column, mounted once more on Shadowfax, his friend, for the horse would suffer no other hand to touch him, and Théoden had given him to Gandalf in thanks for his aid to Rohan. Éomer had offered to let Merry ride with him, and Merry had accepted gratefully, and now sat behind the tall Rider on his horse. The two might have made a comical picture, were it not for their stern and mournful faces.

Swiftly and warily the people of Rohan and Rivendell passed over the endless waves of grass, and the miles lengthened behind them as the sun crossed from morning to afternoon to evening, and no living things did they see save for horses and birds for all the first day. On the second day they came to the river Isen at evening and camped for the night on the near side of the ford. A mist rose from the river and shrouded all that lay near as they camped, and gave the other shore a spectral look in the moonlight which made the sentries uneasy, but though all felt as though hidden eyes watched them from the mist, nothing happened, and when the morning sun burned the fog away there was nothing and no-one to be seen.

They forded the river and rode on, through a country which grew less and less fair and friendly as they rode. Near the Isen the grass had been green and thick, and trees had risen out of it here and there. As they went on, the grass thinned and grew yellow, and instead of trees they saw bare stumps that had been roughly hewn by axes, and sometimes whole trees felled and left to lie and rot by the way. In the mid-morning, they came to a great burned place which reached from the Isen clear across the road and looked as though a very furnace-fire had been unleashed upon it in wrath. Gandalf looked strangely at it, and said, "Here it was that I battled Saruman. I wonder much if anything will take root here again for this century."

None answered him, and they rode on through a country of briars and stumps until they found themselves looking up the road at the ring of Isengard, and Orthanc standing tall and black at its centre. The gates were shut, and all within seemed silent. No smoke rose, no voice challenged, no arrow flew from the walls. Gandalf rode forward and smote upon the doors with his staff, and the echo boomed to and fro between the valley walls until it died away. "Saruman," he cried in a great voice, "come forth!"

The walls remained silent and the gates shut. "Saruman," Gandalf cried again, "there are those here who would speak with you. You have done great evil. Come forth, and perhaps you will be forgiven. Hide, and we will pull your roof down upon your head."

Still there was no answer, but a few arrows came whistling down from the walls and buried themselves in the ground on one side or the other. None came close to striking Gandalf, but it was clear that arrows were all they would get in answer to their parley. Gandalf lifted his staff again, and cried, "Edro! Edro!"

The gates shuddered, but remained closed. More arrows flew towards Gandalf, and some towards the Riders who were nearest the wall. This time, however, the archers of Rohan and Rivendell were prepared, and several cries from the walls announced that their return volley had found a mark. "Á latya!" Maglor called out in a clear, commanding voice, raising his right hand and riding forward towards the gate, unconcerned by the arrows flying overhead.

Again the doors shuddered. Maglor had drawn even with Gandalf, and they called out once more, in unison now, voices ringing clear through the silent air. There was a great crack, as of an ancient tree-trunk snapping under unbearable strain, and the doors swung slowly and silently open. The steel bar which had held them shut from the inside could be seen still in its brackets, shorn clean in two as by a sword-stroke. 

Within the tunnel, no guards could be seen. Saruman, it seemed, had deemed his gate impregnable and manned only the wall. "Forward," cried Théoden, and rode in. 

The defenders of the wall ceased to fire their arrows and disappeared as the ordered cavalry of Rohan, followed by the infantry of Rivendell, marched into the tunnel. As the vanguard emerged from the tunnel, they met a fierce but disorderly charge from some hundreds of Saruman’s Uruk-Hai and a smaller number of unkempt and startled Men, who would doubtless have been formidable foes had they not been so discomfited by the sudden breaching of the supposedly impregnable fortress-wall. The cavalry of Rohan rode on and over them, and those who did not flee or fall to the spears of the Riders met their end upon the keen swords of Rivendell. From his place behind Éomer, Merry wielded his short sword well, and more than one orc that thought it had escaped both Éomer’s spear and Firefoot’s hooves met its end upon his keen blade.

The ring of Isengard was now open to the view, and a dismal view it was. Where once green groves had stood and grass grown, there was bare and blasted earth, dug through with tunnels, and here and there dotted with mounds of slag and filth and strange machines. Such of Isengard’s defenders as had escaped the first clash with the Rohirrim had taken refuge amid the pitfalls and mounds where the cavalry could not easily ride, and now peppered the invaders with arrows. The arrows were returned with a vengeance, however, and at a word from Elrond, the Elves of Rivendell fanned out and, beginning from the gate, set to the work of clearing a safe road to the tower of Orthanc, which still stood dark and silent and ominous at the centre of the ring. No voice or sign came from it.

Gandalf led the way towards Orthanc down a cobbled road bordered by iron posts with chains hung between them, and Théoden and the Rohirrim followed after, with their arrows on the string, watching warily for any movement to either side of the road. Ever and anon there would be a shout and a brief clash of arms as some hidden Orc or Man was discovered and either slain or taken — for some of the Men cast down their arms and were bound — but otherwise all was quiet.

Halfway to the tower, Gandalf halted, and the riders behind him. Elrond came up to join them, for the ring seemed clear, though he had set a screen of scouts upon either side to make certain, posting them well away from any of Saruman’s strange machinery. "What now, Gandalf?" Théoden asked. 

Gandalf looked thoughtfully at the tower of Orthanc. "Saruman will not come out to meet us," he said at length. "He knows himself outmatched. But if we order our followers to retire and come with only a few folk to speak with him, he may well come out and talk. He can learn much from his _palantír,_ but not all things, and he is ever greedy for news. Too, he may wish to find some way to gloat over us if he can."

"Then let it be done. Éothain, take the Riders back to the wall, but be wary and ready to come at need. Éomer, you ride with me."

Glorfindel made some signal to the Elf who stood nearest him, and the elves of Rivendell slipped silently back towards the gate, all save the grey-clad sentries, who could be seen watching the walls and the tunnels alike, if one knew where to look and had keen eyes.

Then the company that remained advanced towards Isengard. The road was wide for three horsemen abreast, and so in the first rank rode Gandalf, Théoden, and Maglor. Behind them came Éomer with Merry behind him, Elrond, and Glorfindel. At length they drew their horses to a halt at the very foot of the black tower, and this time it was Théoden who cried out, "Saruman, come forth! I have words for you."

And, at last, he received an answer, but not such an answer as any there had expected. "Words?" croaked a hideous mockery of a voice. "What words should you have for me that I should care to hear, Théoden Horse-Master?"

Looking up to see whence the sound had come, even steadfast Éomer blanched, for what they saw was nothing that any had expected to see. Something which might once have been formed like a man gripped the iron railing of a high balcony in one withered claw of a hand, and a charred and cracked staff in the other. The ever-changing colours of the robe it wore could not have been more unfitting had they hung a charnel-house in festive array. Eyes that glowed red like a dying fire stared fixedly out of a blistered, blackened and hairless face. Saruman — for it was he — laughed, and the sound was like a corpse wheezing through rotten lungs. Yet, though his voice had lost its beauty, it had not lost its power, for a pall of fear seemed to have settled over man and horse alike at his words.

"I do not know that you care to hear them," said Théoden, "but hear them you shall. You have murdered my son and sent out an army against my people and the people of my allies. You have made yourself the enemy of Rohan. I do not offer you mercy, save for the mercy of a quick death. Come forth and face justice."

"Or come forth and find mercy," Gandalf added, to the surprise of all. "Of all those here, you have wronged only Théoden as you have wronged me, for me you slew, but I offer you one last chance. Come down. Abandon your traps, which turned on the hand that set them, and your plots, which have served only to ensnare you. There is forgiveness even for such as you."

Théoden’s face darkened at these words, but ere he had time to answer, Saruman laughed again in mockery, and retorted, "Mercy? _Gandalf the Grey, Gandalf the Fool,_ presumes to offer mercy to me? What do you think you can do to me, here in Isengard, Gandalf the Fool? I shall sit here in safety until the winters have made your bones dust, foolish boys of Rohan. Or, more likely, until the orcs have slain you all together. _I scorn your pity and your mercy._ If it is truly the last chance, I am glad of it, for I shall not hear you prate any further. Your words do not interest me."

And with that he turned, and, leaning on his staff, began to hobble back towards the door into the tower. "Saruman, come back," Gandalf said suddenly, in a terrible voice. 

Saruman halted as though he had run against a wall, and turned as though drawn by ropes. Resisting at every step, he was pulled back to the rail. "I have not finished with you," Gandalf said sternly. "I am not Gandalf the Grey, whom you slew. I am Gandalf the White. I offered you mercy and you spat upon it. Therefore you shall have justice. _You have no colour. I cast you from the Order. Saruman, your staff is broken._ You shall come forth and yield to me the keys of Orthanc, and then Théoden shall do with you as he pleases."

The battered staff shattered into fragments, and the head fell at Gandalf’s feet in two pieces. Saruman lurched forward, clutching at the railing for support. "Worm," he snarled, "get out here."

And out onto the balcony walked, pale and cringing, Grima Wormtongue. How he had slipped away from his watchers in Edoras none knew, but clearly he had, and then returned to his master. Now it was clear that he would not have done so had he known what he would return to find, for his face was twisted in equal parts fear and revulsion as Saruman’s claw of a hand seized his shoulder in a painful grip and the sometime wizard drew himself upright. "These fine people have come to turn us out, Worm," he said, still snarling. "I think we should show them how we deal with people who come to steal our houses.

Théoden interrupted him. _"Grima,"_ he said, _"you need not follow him. You were once a man of Rohan. Come down and be free of him."_

Wormtongue stopped and half-shook himself free from Saruman’s grip, confusion and fear and something that might almost have been hope warring in his face. "Worm!" Saruman snapped.

Grima stepped away from Saruman, his face working and his eyes glittering. What he would have done then, no one ever knew, for Saruman, with a horrible bellow of rage, seized one of the shattered shards of his staff, and plunged it into Wormtongue’s heart.

Before the unfortunate man’s body had struck the ground, Elrond found his bow jerked from off his back. In the time it takes to take a breath, Théoden had put arrow to string, drawn, and loosed. The shaft flew true, and struck Saruman square in the chest. With one last gasp, the wizard fell backwards onto the balcony, stone dead.

Théoden handed the bow back to Elrond and gazed steadily at the stunned faces of the rest of the company. "To Gondor," he said, then turned his horse and rode back towards the gate.

The rest of the company rode after him in silence, for there seemed to be nothing else to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, italics indicate Elvish or a quote/paraphrase.
> 
> "Á latya" means "Open!" in Quenya.
> 
> The paragraph I marked as possibly disturbing was a description of what Saruman looks like after his fight with Gandalf. Gandalf's specialty is fire, so he got burned pretty badly.
> 
> Comments, as always, are very much appreciated and encourage me to keep going.


	25. The Bells of Dale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caranthir, Amras, and Glóin assist Mirkwood in the aftermath of the battle before setting off for Erebor, where they find some old friends. Sort of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I'm sort of on time. Close enough.
> 
> Credit to Mr_Bultitude for some of Caranthir's dialogue with Khador.

All those who did not depart at once for Lórien took a day of rest after the battle of Mirkwood, for there were wounds to be healed and dead to be buried, and also many orc-corpses to burn, together with the fell beasts of the Nazgûl. The wraiths themselves required no interment, for after so many long years bound to the world only by the power of their rings and their master, their bodies had simply vanished, leaving behind naught save their black robes and their weapons. Those last, which bore many evil runes, Amras insisted that none should touch ere he and his brother had seen to them. Healers or no healers, he insisted that they be dealt with at once, and so, leaning upon Grimbeorn and Caranthir, he made his way out to the site of his battle on the previous day. Glóin, upon hearing of their errand, joined the party, saying that if there were questions of smithcraft to be dealt with, it would be foolishness for the only Dwarf present to be left out of the matter.

As Amras leaned on Grimbeorn, Caranthir looked long at the three naked swords that lay on the ground before he lifted each one gingerly and set them down side by side in the patch of sun which now shone through the trees where the Nazgûl had crashed through the forest-canopy. Then, drawing his own sword, he prodded warily with its tip at the three heaps of black robes. In one of them, he turned up a sheathed dagger on a belt, which he unsheathed cautiously, never touching the blade, and set beside the swords. Then he turned to Amras, and said, "This ought by rights to be done in a forge."

"It should," Amras said, "but unless you wish to bear these blades to the Lonely Mountain, there is none near that would suit our purpose. We can make shift well enough to see that no harm is done."

Caranthir grunted, and kicked at the dagger with the toe of his boot. "I do not like that at all," he said, addressing it rather than his brother. "The swords have such runes as one would expect from work of Thauron’s forges, but no worse. If they are broken and cast into water no evil will come from them. But this dagger is an evil blade. It should be melted and beaten, not only broken."

"I can see that these runes are indeed evil," Glóin said, bending down to examine the weapons more closely, "but what is it that is so much worse about the dagger? It looks no fouler to the eye than the swords."

"Read what lies on the hilt," Caranthir said grimly.

"If need be, I doubt not that Thranduil’s folk have some forges for the making of arrowheads and the repair of such goods of metal as they have," Amras said as Glóin examined the dagger’s hilt, and scowled savagely when he had finished. "But let us see what may be done here first."

Caranthir, rather than answering, began to sing a slow song over the blades as the sun gleamed off of them. After a moment, Amras joined in. Glóin continued to scowl at the dagger, but did not interrupt their music. As they sang, there was no perceptible change in the swords, but the dagger seemed to flicker as though the air about it was raised to a furious heat. As the song continued, its outlines softened and wavered, and then, all at once, the light in the clearing seemed to brighten, and the dagger’s blade dissolved like a swamp-mist in the morning sun. The hilt remained, but the runes that had been so clearly graven on it only a moment ago now looked blurred by weather and chipped by time. 

Caranthir stopped singing to look more closely at the hilt. "Now that, I did not expect," he said in surprise.

"What in the name of wonder was that?" asked Grimbeorn, who had been watching the proceedings with interest and mild incomprehension.

"I am not certain," said Amras. 

"That blade," said Caranthir disgustedly, "was not only marked with evil runes in the forging, it was never forged truly in the first place, only made and held together by Thauron’s foul enchantments. When the light struck it as we began to break the enchantment, it could no longer hold together and so it did as you have seen." Then he turned to Amras. "If the dagger’s enchantments are dissolved, I deem that the swords are ready to break," he said.

"It was always you who was most skilled at forge-work, brother," Amras said. "If you deem it ready, then I will follow your lead."

Caranthir looked at him as one who would say something after the fashion of, "Oh, will you now?" but remained silent.

"Skilled at forge-work or no, how do you propose to break such a blade as this in a forge for arrowheads?" Glóin wanted to know.

"We must find a stone or a stout tree-stump," Caranthir replied.

A little searching turned up an ancient oak, dead from the roots up, but not yet fallen. Caranthir ran his shoulder against it hard, but the trunk was still stout and all he achieved was to shower himself with twigs. Grimbeorn winced a little at the thud he made when he struck the tree, but Caranthir looked rather pleased by this, and, taking up the first sword, wedged it under one of the tree’s roots, and set his weight to the hilt. The sword bent first into a half-circle, then almost into a full circle, but it did not break. He set one foot in the centre of the blade and stepped down hard. The circle flattened a little, and then suddenly there was a shuddering noise and a shimmer in the air, and the sword somehow slipped out from under Caranthir’s hands and foot at the same time. Caranthir fell backwards with an eel-like twist, narrowly missing the edge of the sword as it snapped straight again.

"Evidently your singing hasn’t done quite enough," Glóin observed, sounding rather amused as he watched Caranthir endeavour to retain his dignity while brushing leaves out of his long, black hair. 

"I haven’t noticed you offering any ideas," Caranthir retorted.

"You haven’t asked me," said Glóin with great dignity.

Caranthir eyed him frostily for a moment, but there was a rather mischievous glint to his eye that belied the set of his jaw. "Then do, please, Master Dwarf, honour us with your opinion," he said in a somewhat teasing tone.

"Thank you," said Glóin, ignoring the taunt, "I shall."

He and Caranthir examined the sword together, no hint of the seeming animosity of before remaining in either word or look. "I don’t think your singing is going to solve this," said Glóin after a few minutes’ consultation.

"Not swiftly," Caranthir answered. "What do you propose?"

"Are there such things as chisels in this benighted kingdom?"

As their proceedings had gathered a certain number of onlookers, including Captain Lalven, who evidently wished to see the last of the Nazgûl which had nearly slain him the proceeding day, the question was put a second time to the general vicinity, and after a little delay a set of chisels and a small hammer were produced. Glóin inspected them carefully, selected a medium-sized chisel, and set to work cutting runes into the blade of the first sword. Caranthir watched over his shoulder in interest and growing approval. 

A final tap of the chisel evidently put the finishing touches to Glóin’s work, and he sat back with a huff of satisfaction. "Now you try your luck at breaking it, lad," he said, handing it to Caranthir, "while I set to work on the next one."

"Lad?" Caranthir asked as he wedged the sword back under the tree-root. "It has been more than six thousand years by the reckoning of Arda since I was born, and you call me _lad?_"

He put his back into the endeavour nevertheless, and this time the sword snapped cleanly at the centre. Glóin ignored his comments, but looked up from his work triumphantly at the loud report of the snapped blade. Caranthir ignored him in turn, and tossed the shards of the sword down beside the dagger-hilt. 

Once the other two swords were similarly carven and broken, Caranthir and Glóin bore them to the Forest River and threw them in. "We have done what can be done here," said Amras as the steel splashed into the swift water. "Let Ulmo take them now, and his waters will wash them clean."

"Well, there’s that," Glóin said. 

The last remains of the Nazgûl disposed of, Glóin was eager to set out for his home, and though Thranduil was courteous, it was clear that he was not entirely loath to bid them farewell. Caranthir and Amras clasped hands, and Caranthir said gruffly, "Stay out of trouble, brother."

"It is not I who am riding into a siege with one companion and one overly large axe."

"No, it is you who are riding into the stronghold of the Enemy wounded."

"With an army at my back."

"Hmph. Stay out of trouble anyway. It has already bitten you once."

Amras was not a Hobbit child to roll his eyes in amusement at the hypocrisy of others, but the way in which he raised his eyebrows at his brother conveyed much the same sentiment. "In the words of that mad mortal who swore allegiance to Maedhros, 'you should see the other fellow!' But I shall agree to stay out of trouble just as well as you do."

"Done," said Caranthir with a smile, and they shook hands on it. 

Glóin had watched their farewell with a smile which he almost succeeded in hiding behind his beard by the time that it was his turn to shake hands with Amras. Both Elves had graciously ignored his sudden fit of coughing earlier in the conversation. But then, with an odd suddenness, the farewells were over and it was time to be off. The Forest River was the swiftest road to Erebor, and so Thranduil’s folk had provided Caranthir and Glóin with a stout raft and provisions for some days on the water. It was a leisurely two-day journey to Laketown by raft, and from there it was perhaps another two or three days on foot to Dale, which lay before the gates of the Lonely Mountain. This was, of course, assuming that the travellers were in no particular hurry. A skilled raftsman with little baggage and a need for haste could make the journey from Thranduil’s halls to Laketown in a day and a half, and the journey from Laketown to Dale in the same, if he was either well-mounted or well accustomed to hard journeying. 

Glóin and Caranthir were both used to journeys in the Wild, and, though they were neither of them overly skilled in the steering of rafts, what they lacked in skill they made up for in urgency. They did not halt either to eat or camp, and made their journey to Laketown in a day and a half, alternating watches by night so that they had no need ever to tie up the raft. They found that establishment buzzing like a hive of bees that has been prodded with a stick. The bridges which connected it to the lake’s shore were cut and smoking, and more than one of the inhabitants looked askance at the curiously mismatched strangers who had more or less appeared out of thin air at dusk, paddling a raft that might have come from anywhere. 

However, Glóin was known there by name. By dint of a good deal of shouting, backed up by Caranthir, who loomed in the background and leaned on his great black axe, he managed to persuade a freckled youth to take them to the warden in charge of the wharfs, who recognised him, and greeted him and his companion courteously enough. The warden also offered them supper, to which they were not opposed. After they sat down, Glóin asked the question which he had been asking, at varying volumes and of varying people, ever since they had landed: "What in Mahal’s name is going on here?" 

The warden informed them, with a good deal of descriptive detail and some commentary on the state of the world these days, that a great army of Men had come up out of the East — he was quite clear that they were Men and not Orcs, though they "wore the most peculiar armour, that looked as though it was not made of steel at all, nothing like the sort of things that the Dwarves in the Lonely Mountain make, and probably poor quality, if you asked him" — and had attempted to enter Laketown, at which the Master of the town had ordered the bridges to be cut and burned. None of the strange Men had managed to make it across before the flames had engulfed the bridges, and they had not carried boats with them, so they had marched away up the River Running towards Dale and the Lonely Mountain, but they had left behind a fair number of guards to watch what had used to be the ends of the bridges, and so the people of Laketown were most uncomfortable. The few boats that had ventured to attempt to land had been peppered by arrows from their watchers, who had evidently set a fairly extensive perimeter around the lake. Since then, nobody had dared to so much as take a boat within bowshot of the shore. In short, there was no help to be had from the people of Laketown at present, either in supplies or in transportation.

The warden offered them shelter for the night, and though Glóin and Caranthir found the news of this great army of Men and their investment of Laketown very much disturbing, they agreed that nothing would be gained by their paddling about in the dark on the Long Lake and like as not getting further from the Lonely Mountain, and so they accepted gratefully. 

The next morning, however, they were off as soon as ever the sun began to put her head over the horizon, and not all the warden’s kindly offers of breakfast could bring them to stay. He actually offered them the use of a boat as they were leaving, but Glóin waved him off, saying that they could hardly endanger the property of a man who had been so kind to them. 

Most of the remainder of their day was spent in paddling up the lake and veering well away from any clumps of trees or rushes on the bank which might perhaps hide an archer, for though Glóin and Caranthir both wore mail, neither of them wished to join a battle in which they had no means to strike at their foe, and neither of them were archers. 

Towards the afternoon, it became more and more difficult to paddle the raft, for they were working against the current of the River Running as they drew nearer to the eastern end of the Long Lake. If the watchers on the shore had seen them, they had given no sign. Not so much as a startled bird had betrayed any presence save theirs. Perhaps the sentries were not concerned with boats which went towards the line of the siege rather than away.

At evening, they noticed a line of scouts moving across the green, stony country that led up to the feet of the Lonely Mountain, but these evidently either did not see them or did not consider their raft worthy of notice. Just before dark, after some rather strenuous paddling, they drove the raft aground on the northern bank of the River Running, just below its outlet into the Long Lake. The country about them was mostly healed from Smaug’s fires, but here and there scorched stone and ancient tree-stumps could still be seen among the yellow grass, here and there just beginning to green, and the slim, bare young trees. 

There was cover enough among the boulders and new forests for wary men to hide from view of the lake, and so they went cautiously and slowly, keeping well clear of the larger trees. All the same, they had not gotten far before two men in curiously wrought armour stepped out of the shadows and challenged them in a strange tongue, half lilting vowels that reminded Glóin of the Quenya that Caranthir sometimes spoke with his brothers, half harsh consonants that sounded rather Dwarvish. _Either we have been taken for allies,_ he thought, _which is unlikely enough, or they expect all their allies to speak their own tongue and mean to expose us since we do not._

Caranthir had put his head on one side when the guards began to speak, as though he were trying to catch a tune that lay just beyond the range of hearing. Then he answered in something that sounded like the same language, but sharper, quicker, and more precise, as though it had edges that had somehow been shaved off of the guard’s speech. The elaborately masked helms that the men wore hid most of their expressions, but not their eyes, which went very wide indeed at his speech.

The guard who had first spoken rapped out a sharp, sudden question. Caranthir threw back his hood, drew himself up to his full, and considerable, height, and took a step forward. Both of the guards braced their hands on their spears and turned the points towards Caranthir, looking very small and young and fragile, like the young trees that now grew on the roots of the ancient, grey mountain that now blocked out nigh on a third of the sky. Neither of them could meet his eyes. He spoke again, in a deep voice that seemed to echo back from the stones even though he had hardly raised his voice.

Caranthir was both surprised and not surprised to hear on the lips of these guards a variant of the speech which had once been common among his liegemen of the house of the accursed house of Ulfang, and also among Maedhros’ faithful followers of the house of Bór, though in a different dialect. The tongue he heard had changed somewhat over the course of the years, but he could still understand the guards well enough, and guessed that they would most likely understand him also, despite the changeability of the tongues of Men. _"Who are you, and what would you have in the camp of the people of Khamûl?"_ the young man asked, with the air of one who did not expect an answer.

_"I am he who would speak with your general at once,"_ Caranthir replied in the same tongue.

The boy — perhaps he was not one by the standards of mortals, but to Caranthir he certainly seemed to be — stiffened as though he had been struck. _"How do you speak our tongue?"_ he barked sharply.

Caranthir had not really expected that request to go unchallenged, and so he was not surprised. The boy’s defiance was rather amusing, however. He threw back his hood so that the moonlight caught and shone reflected in his eyes, and straightened to his full height, which was several inches taller than either of the guards. Taking a step forward, which earned him two spears pointed at his chest, he said, using one of the more formal modes, as these seemed to change less with the years, _"I speak your tongue for that I am your liege-lord of old. Through fire and water came I over the sea an age and an age ago to hear your fathers’ oaths of fealty. Amidst fire at the side of your fathers I fought, and some of them me bewrayed. Now, over water, have I returned to claim those oaths of eld, for my death did not absolve ye of your allegiance. I am Caranthir Fëanorion, sometime called the Dark Warrior. I would speak to your general."_

As he spoke this last, he brought the great axe upon which he had been leaning to stand before him, resting both hands upon its head. The guards stared at him in awe and fear, saying nothing and standing rigidly still, as though he was a snake that would not see them if they did not move. Behind him, Glóin shifted, perhaps put out at hearing so much conversation to which he was not privy, or perhaps a little unsettled by the sudden silence after the equally sudden barked questions. Finally, the guard who had said naught until now broke the silence. _"I am Brókha,"_ he said stiffly. _"I cannot let any enter this camp who do not know the password. I shall call the captain of the watch."_

Hesitantly turning about, he retreated a few steps back towards the boulder behind which he and his companion had lain in wait, and produced a glowing branch of wood from some recess in the stone. This he waved twice in the air so that the smouldering tip burst into flame, and then smothered it in the earth and approached once more. 

Reinforced by his comrade, the guard who as yet remained nameless spoke. _"You cannot enter our camp armed,"_ he said. _"You and your companion must leave all your weapons with us."_

_"I shall not leave my weapons at the door of a hall where allegiance is owed me,"_ Caranthir said impassively. _"A liegeman should know better than to make demands of his lord."_

The guard fell silent, though he darted a venomous glance at Caranthir from under the high ridged brows of his helm, and then for a little time none of them either moved or spoke. It felt, to the mortals, far longer than it was. Brókha and his fellow shifted subtly but uneasily on their feet, keeping their spear-points as close to Caranthir as was possible without an overt breach of courtesy. Glóin watched Caranthir and the guards by turns. Caranthir himself seemed to have grown roots into the mountain. He stood perfectly unmoving, gazing away into the distance, the moonlight catching in his raven-dark hair and kindling answering light in his granite-grey eyes. In that blue-white radiance, his face might have been carven of marble.

Soon, however, the silence was broken by the quick step of wary feet on stone, and out of the shadows came more men, masked and wearing half-cloaks of light, stone-coloured stuff that made them difficult to see in the shifting shadows of the night. They made a half-ring about the strangers, all save one, whose helm was higher than the rest, and who stepped forward beside the watchmen. _"Brókha, Ulfen,"_ he said, _"what is this? Why do you call me because there are strangers at the camp’s edge? If they are foes, you should have slain them or driven them away. If they are friends, you should have admitted them."_

Caranthir had listened so far in the hope of hearing something of use before the captain learned that he spoke their tongue, but when Ulfen remained silent, and Brókha stammered in confusion, he broke in, _"I am neither friend to your errand nor foe to your people, son of the people of Bòr and Ulfang."_

At those names the captain started. Caranthir continued, _"I am Caranthir Fëanorion, sometime your liege-lord, sometime of Beleriand, returned unto ye now from beyond the grave. Death did not absolve ye of your allegiance. I would speak with your general."_

The captain laughed. _"Why, then I am Lord Khamûl the sorcerer,"_ he said, _"who shall presently call upon my master to smite thee — my master who defeated thee in the last war, and should defeat thee again even wert thou whom thou saidst."_

Caranthir stepped forward once more, looming over the captain, so that he must either step back or look up to meet his eyes. After a moment his gaze dropped and his laughter stopped. _"Khamûl’s master was himself a servant when I went to war,"_ Caranthir said sternly, _"and had it been him alone that we faced, our war would have ended swiftly indeed. I would speak with your general. Cease to try my patience."_

_"Seize their weapons,"_ the captain barked suddenly, and his men sprang forward. Caranthir, without unbinding the leather that covered his axe’s keen edge, swung it with a suddenness that was all the more startling because of his perfect stillness before. Ten of them were flung backwards to land, groaning, on the stony ground. 

_"I yield my weapons to no man,"_ Caranthir said.

At the same moment, Glóin, who had had enough, though after Caranthir’s swing none of the soldiers had dared lay hands upon his axe, snapped, "Whatever you’re saying, it does not seem to be helping!"

But even as he spoke, the soldiers who remained on their feet drew back again, murmuring amongst themselves. Caranthir turned to Glóin and raised one eyebrow, saying, "We are neither slain nor in chains. I was once the liege-lord of the fathers of the fathers of these men. Sooner or later they will yield either to my right or my strength."

"What exactly are you hoping to do?"

"At best, to perhaps bring some of them to fight with us against Thauron. At the worst, to cast them into enough confusion that the siege may be broken."

Brókha, to the surprise of all, spoke again ere Glóin could reply, and said, _"The stories of our fathers’ fathers speak of tall men who die not and whose eyes glow with a light that none can match. They say that of old we swore fealty to such a one. Should we not hear him at the least?"_

The captain turned to face Brókha and looked keenly at him from under his tall helm. _"You speak boldly, boy,"_ he said.

Brókha’s voice trembled a little as he answered, but he said, _"I speak what I have been told by the elders, sir."_

The captain looked at him a moment longer, then seemed to make a decision. _"Very well then, Brókha, we shall see if the stories of our fathers’ fathers have indeed come forth alive from the past. Lead them to the Lord Khador’s tent, as you are so keen to welcome them. I and my men shall accompany you, save for Ban, who shall take your place beside Ulfen in the watch."_ Then, with a glance at the men who were slowly picking themselves up off of the ground, he added, _"Let those who have need see a healer."_

"They lead us to their general," Caranthir said in a low voice to Glóin.

"That he may slay us?"

"I think not."

_"Come,"_ said the captain. _"I am Lâkhad, second captain to Lord Khador. I will lead you to him."_

With that, he, followed by Brókha, led them forward past the sentry-line. The remainder of his silent, masked troops, save for those who fell in behind them. Glóin glanced back at them uneasily, but Caranthir strode forward in Lâkhad’s wake without turning his eyes to either side. They passed through perhaps another half-mile of barren, unmarked ground, before they came all at once to rows of tents, cunningly wrought so that to the unwary eyes they seemed to be sand-buried stones, and many campfires which dwelt in little deep pits so that their flames were hidden.

There was a second line of sentries that rose up from among the tents, but upon seeing Lâkhad and his men, they straightened to attention and let all pass, though their eyes followed Caranthir and his great black axe. Within the camp, few were awake, but they watched warily as Lâkhad and Brókha led the strangers through cleverly laid paths among the tents and fires.

Finally, they came to a larger tent, which had several of the small pit-fires in the open space before it. It was lit dimly from within, as though a lamp were burning. Before the tent-flap, Lâkhad halted. Standing to attention, he called, _"Lord Khador, I bring strange folk here to speak with you."_

_"Bring them in, then,"_ said a voice from within the tent. 

They entered, and for the first time saw one of the strange Men unmasked. His face was lean with the leanness of a man who has for many years endured life in the desert lands, and it was marked with the scars both of battle and weather, but his eyes were still keen and curious as they looked upon his visitors. He opened his mouth to speak, but they never found out what he was going to say or to whom he was going to say it.

Before anyone could breathe or blink, Caranthir’s axe, sheatheless, was a hairs-breadth from Khador’s throat. _"I am Caranthir Fëanorion,"_ he said in a voice like the voice of a mountain. _"Your fathers owed their allegiance to me long before you swore to Thauron the _faithless and accursed._ I do not ask you to fight with me, but you will not fight against me. Should I see your face upon the field of battle amongst my foes, the last thing you ever see will be my eyes, for you will never see my blade."_

All the colour went out of Khador’s face as he stared up to meet Caranthir’s eyes. The axe moved just far enough away that he could speak and move a little without the keen edge touching his throat, and at once he bowed his head low over his low table. _"My liege,"_ he said softly. _"It shall be as you command."_

Caranthir turned to those of their guides who had followed them to the door of the tent. Brókha was the first to kneel, followed by Lâkhad. All repeated after their general, _"My liege."_

"Well," said Glóin, "of all the things I expected to happen, this was not one."

Caranthir smiled, but did not speak to him. Instead, he addressed himself once more to Khador, saying, _"Tomorrow we shall speak to those whom you now besiege, and peace will be arranged. Now we shall speak of what you and your army will do."_

_"As you command,"_ Khador replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter, we FINALLY make it back to Gondor and find out what happened after Denethor's breakdown...dun dun DUN!
> 
> The 'mad mortal' was named Amlach. He’s the only man in the Silmarillion who is mentioned as having sworn allegiance to any of the House of Fëanor, and he did it out of a desire for revenge on Morgoth, so he had to be pretty crazy.
> 
> The reason for the radically different registers of formality in this chapter is that Caranthir is using a very archaic version of whatever language he’s speaking (hence the odd word order). Ulfen and Brókha are speaking in a more or less modern version. Lâkhad was mockingly imitating what he saw as Caranthir’s over-formality.
> 
> Most of the italics here indicate that the language of the Easterlings is being spoken rather than Westron. 
> 
> Khamûl was a great king of the Easterlings to whom Sauron gave one of the Nine Rings. He became the second-in-command of the Nazgûl.


	26. The Siege of Gondor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gondor deals with the fallout from Denethor's madness and braces for the coming siege.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back to Gondor, after five weeks or something like that. Hopefully it proves to be worth the wait!
> 
> Credit to Mr_Bultitude for beta reading.

Pippin sat in the Houses of Healing with his hands clenched on his knees, and watched Boromir stride from one end of the room to the other like a caged wolf, while Maedhros stood perfectly still and perfectly straight, staring out the eastward window at the still-growing clouds, his one hand holding so tightly to the sill that his knuckles were white. Ever and anon one of the healers, clad in white, would leave and return bearing bandages or herbs or other instruments of the healer’s art, but they never spoke, and neither did Boromir or Maedhros. It had been almost an hour since Denethor had gone mad and nearly murdered his son, since Maedhros had come racing into the Halls of Healing, bearing Faramir’s limp body in his arms with the dagger-hilt still standing out from his breast. Since Maedhros had killed the Steward of Gondor. 

And still Denethor’s body lay in the sealed hall, for no-one knew that the Steward was dead, or how Faramir had been so gravely wounded, save for the three who now stood or sat or strode about in the small, white room with its small arched window looking out to the East and the rising storm. A young and worried apprentice of the healers had come shortly after their arrival to dress the wound on Boromir’s side, but had said nothing, and left shortly afterwards to assist those who still fought for Faramir’s life.

Finally, Boromir halted his pacing, and said said, "A storm is brewing yonder, but it is no match for the storm which already rages within these walls, or will do so when we reveal what has passed." 

Maedhros turned away from the window to face him, but remained silent. Boromir continued, "There is much that must be done, but it is work for a statesman. I am a warrior and a soldier with a city to rule, and those who should advise me…cannot."

"There lies a debt of honour between us, Boromir, son of Denethor," Maedhros said. "I shall not blame you if you wish for no counsel of mine, though it is yours should you desire it."

"The debt of honour," said Boromir, "is a matter for another time, when we shall have leisure to think of such things. For the present, it shall not come between us. What you did, you did for the sake of Gondor, and now it is for the survival of Gondor that I must fight."

With those words, he offered Maedhros his hand. The Elf clasped his arm firmly, and said, quietly, "Thank you."

A little of the tension seemed to go out of the room then, and Boromir said, "I would be glad for your counsel in this matter, for it cannot be concealed from the city that my father is slain, nor should it be, but I do not think it wise that all that passed between him and us become known."

"If that be so," Maedhros said, "then I would advise you to announce to the city at once that your father is fallen in combat with the Enemy, and your brother gravely wounded in the same. None save the inhabitants of this room," and he looked keenly at Pippin, "need know the full tale, now or ever."

"Wisely said," Boromir replied. "It shall be done even so. But there is more afoot beyond these walls than the storm in the clouds."

"Aye," Maedhros said grimly. "This is a fume brewed in Orodruin, sent ahead of Thauron’s armies that they may be shielded from the sun, even as Faramir told us. This city must be set in readiness for a greater siege than has been fought in this Age. Have you any means of calling for aid?"

"Yes. The Beacons of Gondor have not been lit for an Age and more, but they are yet kept in readiness to call to Rohan and to the folk of the outlands should there be need. They shall be lit now."

Boromir drew himself straighter, as though some burden had been lifted from his shoulders, or as though he braced himself for a blow. Pippin was not sure which was truer. _A blow is coming for us all,_ he thought, and to his surprise the thought brought with it not fear, but something like sternness. Seized by a sudden impulse, he rose from his chair, drew his sword, and knelt before Boromir, laying the sword at his feet. The Man looked at him in surprise. "I know that the whole time I’ve been here I’ve been useless or worse," Pippin said, "but, well, I have a sword too, and though I hope never to have to use it, if I do, I should like for it to be in your service."

Boromir knelt on one knee and took the sword into his hands and looked at the young hobbit with a face both stern and gracious. "You under-value your service, I deem," he said. "Already you have done Gondor service. But these are perilous times, and the service of the Steward of Gondor is not a safe office. Are you resolved on this, Peregrin?"

"I am," Pippin said stoutly, looking up to meet his eyes. 

"Then," said Boromir, "repeat these words after me."

So it was that in the Halls of Healing, Boromir, son of Denethor, twenty-seventh Ruling Steward of Gondor, heard the vows of his first liegeman. Pippin spoke slowly after him, but did not stumble as he repeated the words of the oath of fealty: _"Here do I swear fealty and service to Gondor, and to the Lord and Steward of the realm, to speak and to be silent, to do and to let be, to come and to go, in need or plenty, in peace or war, in living or dying, from this hour henceforth, until my lord release me, or death take me, or the world end. So say I, Peregrin son of Paladin of the Shire of the Halflings."_

"_And this do I hear,_" Boromir answered, "Boromir son of Denethor, _Lord of Gondor, Steward of the High King, and I will not forget it, nor fail to reward that which is given: fealty with love, valour with honour, oathbreaking with vengeance."_

Pippin _received his sword back_ from Boromir _and put it into its sheath._ Then, suddenly, he remembered something which had been driven entirely from his mind by the chaos in the throne room. "Captain Eärendur!" he exclaimed.

"What of him?" Boromir asked.

"He was to set out looking for Frodo, but I managed to get him to say he’d wait until he heard from you before he left!"

Boromir gave the hobbit a curious look at this, but evidently decided that the question of how, precisely, Pippin had managed to extract such a promise from a captain of the Citadel Guard could wait for another day. "Then take this for my first command, Peregrin," he said: "Go to him, and tell him that he is not to set out upon that quest now or at all, but is rather to set the Guard in readiness for a siege. Tell him also that I have news that all Gondor should know at once, and to gather all the garrison and people of the city to hear my words. Then tell him to send a man to Malvegil, who watches over the beacon of Amon Dín, and instruct him to set it alight at once. When you have finished, come to the Citadel, and you will find me there."

Pippin bowed awkwardly to Boromir and trotted out of the room, bearing for the guardroom and hoping desperately that Captain Eärendur had indeed kept his word and not gone off to seek for Frodo.

When Pippin had gone, Boromir turned back to Maedhros, and said, "I shall tell the healers of what has befallen my father and see that he is taken up from the hall. Then I shall speak to the folk of the city, for there is no time to speak with the councillors alone. Then you and I shall take counsel for what is to be done."

Pippin’s heart was beating very fast as he hurried back to the guardhouse to carry his message to Eärendur. He had complained before of not having enough to do; now it seemed that he had landed himself right in the thick of the action. _Too late to do anything else now, though,_ he thought, _and I wouldn’t want to anyway. Not with Boromir and Maedhros going to battle, and Frodo and Sam still on the borders of Mordor._ A part of him expected the tall Man to doubt him, but perhaps he had heard something from Beregond that bore out Pippin’s tale, or perhaps there was something in the way that Pippin delivered his message. At any rate, Eärendur sprang into action as soon as Pippin had spoken, sending a messenger to Malvegil of the Beacon at once before ordering most of the rest of his men to call together the soldiery of the Citadel.

Then, as Boromir had ordered, he made his way back to the Citadel, wondering much why he of all people had been bidden to come. He had to weave his way through a goodly press of people gathered in the streets of the sixth circle. Some of them stood upon balconies, some upon the walls; some had even climbed to the roofs of the houses. Eärendur had done his work well. There were old men and boys, matrons and maidens, and many soldiers clad in black and silver. On Pippin ran through a forest of legs, until he reached the gate of the Citadel. The guards, who were holding back the crowd, raised their spears to let him through. Wondering greatly what was going on and what on earth he had to do with it, he pattered up the shadowed road and emerged onto the green sward of the seventh level of the city, blinking a little in the sudden sunlight.

Once his eyes had adjusted to the brilliant light once more, he saw Boromir standing at the very end of the great outthrust spur of the mountain upon whose top they stood — on the prow of the ship, as it were — and Maedhros a few paces behind him. Both were facing out towards the lower circles of the city, but Maedhros seemed to hear Pippin’s arrival, for he turned and beckoned the hobbit to stand beside him. Thunderstruck, Pippin obeyed. _And I thought Uncle Bilbo knew how to set the stage for a speech!_

As he hurried up to stand beside Maedhros, feeling very much out of place among the tall Men of the Tower Guard, Pippin heard Boromir begin, "Men of Gondor, _doom and great deeds_ have come upon us. The Enemy has struck the first stroke of the war which has been so long preparing. An army greater than any that has been seen in this Age marches to this city, hiding from the sunlight under the foul fumes of Orodruin. But I have still more evil news. I trust to the courage you have shown in our long battle to bear up beneath it. The Enemy, unbeknownst to any of us, found a way to strike at the very heart of our city. My father, your Steward, is fallen in battle with our foe. In the same conflict, my brother was sorely wounded. The agent of the Enemy who did these evils has been slain, and no more shall follow him. The Lord Maedhros and I have seen to that. 

"Now, however, there is no time to mourn, for though I have ordered the beacons to be lit and have hope of aid both from Rohan and, perhaps, from others, of which I shall speak more later, the Enemy’s army will arrive ere any aid can reach us. Neither is there time to invest me with the signs of my office. There will be time in abundance both for ceremony and for grief once this war is won. For now, I command. I have set the captains to bring this city into readiness for a siege. Faramir, ere he was wounded, drew all our men who were outside the city within the walls. 

"The aged who cannot move swiftly, and the women with young children, will leave this city under guard by the gate of Rath Dínen. Our ancient dead will not begrudge the living their escape from the foe. They will take hidden paths through the mountains and seek out a place of safety, whether that be found in the outlands of Gondor or in Rohan. All those who remain are to prepare to serve their city in a siege, after what manner they deem best. Those of you who have some of the healer’s art, seek out Amlaith, lord of the Houses of Healing, and he will find work for you. If you can wield a blade, come to Captain Eärendur of the Citadel Guard. All those who dwell in the first or second circles must move, for a time, into the higher levels, where they will be clear of shot or stone-cast from without the walls. Carry with you all your provisions and weapons, and those tools which may be of use to you, but do not burden yourselves with anything that you do not need. Captain Mallor, who rules the garrison of the third circle, will direct you to houses where you may stay.

"I shall not lie to you and say that victory is assured. It is not. Gondor has faced no such trial since the days of Isildur and Elendil the Faithful. But I shall say that I have hope. The courage of this city has stood unbending through centuries of gathering darkness. Our friends of Rohan are faithful to us, and our liegemen of the outlands have never failed us in our need. More even than that, aid has come down to us out of the past. Those of you who have read something of ancient wars know the name Maedhros of Himring, greatest of the generals of the First Age. Know that he and the Lord Maedhros of whom I spoke are one and the same: he stands with me now, and his brethren are returned to us beyond hope or expectation, out of the deeps of time, to aid our war against Sauron." At those words, Maedhros stepped forward to stand beside Boromir where all could see, and a startled hush fell on the crowd.

"Now," Boromir continued, "You know what you must do. There is much work, but there are many hands. Let the foes of the Enemy see that the people of Gondor will fight by dusk as well as dawn, under cloud-shadow as under the sun, untiring and fearless! He looks upon this city and sees an ancient kingdom, rotten and ready to fall, newly bereft of its lord. I look upon it and see a people of courage unbending, who will face any threat with calm eyes and steady hands, and meet every wave of the oncoming foe with a wave of arrows until there is no need for the fumes of Orodruin to block out the sun! This is the city of proudest memory in Middle-Earth, and I do not believe that we have fallen from the peak of valour of our fathers! Go forth and fight for your houses and your fields, fight for your brothers and your sisters, fight for your wives and your children! Fight for Gondor!"

"For Gondor," the crowd echoed with many voices. 

"For Gondor!" Boromir cried again, and again the crowd echoed him with a voice like waves gathering themselves to crash at the foot of a cliff with a thunder of falling water and loosened stone.

Pippin, too, cried out in answer, "For Gondor!" and even as he spoke, he he heard Maedhros’ deep voice boom out in the same shout.

"For Gondor!" Boromir shouted one last time, and then lifted up his horn and blew three great blasts upon it that sounded back again from the mountain’s flanks like the horns of a whole army gathered beneath old Mindolluin’s white head.

Though the roar of the people beneath was nearly deafening, so mighty a blast had Boromir blown that it all but drowned out their voices. Pippin found that there were tears on his cheeks as he joined in the shouting and cheering. _To Gondor I have pledged my loyalty,_ he thought, _and for Gondor I will fight._

It was some time before the shouting died down and the crowd dispersed. When Boromir and Maedhros turned their steps back from the great stone prow upon which they had been standing, Pippin saw that they too had wept. He half expected them to stride past him and take no notice, for it seemed that there could be no kinship between such great lords of Elves and Men and a simple hobbit.

He was surprised, therefore, when Boromir halted before him and gazed at him thoughtfully. Pippin stood up straighter, coming as close as he knew how to the bearing of the guards who stood about him. "My first liegeman should have the livery of his office," Boromir said to him. "Go once more to Captain Eärendur, and tell him that you have joined the Citadel Guard, and he will see you fitted out with proper clothes — aye, and with mail, for a soldier of Gondor ought not to go without armour in such times as these."

"Yes, my lord," said Pippin, feeling it very strange to address Boromir thus after so many weeks of companionship in travel. When Boromir said no more, he bowed and turned about to go and seek out Captain Eärendur, _Who,_ he thought wryly, _will soon be sick of the sight of me at this rate!_

As Pippin hurried off to get his livery and mail, a young boy came running up to Boromir and Maedhros. "My lords," he said, "I bring you a message from the healers. They have done all they can for Lord Faramir, and he is now resting. In the mean time, Amlaith wishes to speak with you. Also, your brother, my lord," and here he turned to Maedhros, "or so he says he is, wishes urgently to speak with you."

Boromir gazed at the boy in startled silence for a moment, tensing as though he expected to be struck, but he gathered himself swiftly, and said, "We shall come presently. Send word to the healers to expect us."

"Yes, my lord," said the boy, and ran back towards the Houses of Healing at once.

Maedhros grasped Boromir’s shoulder briefly before they strode swiftly towards the Houses of Healing in the boy’s wake. There they found Amlaith, who was chief of the healers, waiting for them in the same little white anteroom where they had taken counsel so short a time before. He spoke without preamble as soon as they entered, and said, "My lord, I have good news for you."

Boromir’s clenched fists relaxed at that, and he looked to Amlaith with hope in his eyes. The Healer continued, "Your brother rests now. His wound was serious. The lung was struck, and, had the dagger come a little further to the right, it would have touched his heart. He has lost much blood, but he is strong, and the wound was treated swiftly. He is not wholly out of danger, nor will be for some time, but I can say that he is more likely than not to recover. He will wake soon, I think, and it would be well if you were there when he does. I do not know under what circumstances he was wounded, beyond what Bergil has told me, nor do I need to, but I do know that he has called out more than once in his sleep both for you and for the Lord Denethor."

"I shall go to him at once," Boromir said.

"I will lead you to him," Amlaith replied. "Bergil, take the Lord Maedhros to his brother, and make haste."

The boy who had first brought the message to them appeared in a doorway and beckoned to Maedhros, who followed him. Amlaith led Boromir down a white corridor decked with pictures of herbs and unfigured hangings in light, pleasant colours, until they reached a fair and pleasant room. The windows were open, for it was a mild afternoon and the threat of storm had not yet set its chill in the air, and a gentle light came through. In the bed lay Faramir, his chest swathed with bandages, looking very still and pale, but breathing. 

There was no other furniture beside the bed save for a small table and a chair. Boromir drew the chair up to his brother’s bedside. Amlaith bowed and withdrew. Boromir took his brother’s hand, and his fingers found the pulse at the wrist. Its beat was faint and quick but steady. Boromir breathed deeply in relief, looked up to his brother’s face again, and nearly sprang out of his seat with a shout of surprise when he met Faramir’s confused grey eyes. 

It was that shock of relief and joy, after all the strange and wonderful and terrible shocks which had been coming ever more quickly since the Council of Elrond had become host to the Sons of Fëanor, since Maedhros had uncloaked a power unlike any Boromir had ever seen before even from Mithrandir, since the light of madness in Denethor’s eyes, the terrible _thud_ of a dagger driving home, and the stain of red blood on the white marble floor of the throne room and the white staff of the Steward, which broke the stern rule Boromir had held over his emotions. He grasped Faramir’s hand in both of his with convulsive strength and rested his head on his clenched hands as great sobs shook his shoulders and tears ran down his cheeks.

Faramir could not have had much use of his left arm, but he brought it up to grasp Boromir’s wrist as best he could, and for some time neither of them moved. Boromir could never, afterward, say whether he sat thus beside his wounded brother’s bed for a minute or an hour, but in the end his storm passed, and he blinked away the last of his tears and loosed his iron grip on Faramir’s hand. He looked up again when he heard Faramir’s voice rasp softly, "Boromir?"

"I am well," he said hurriedly, and found that it was not a lie. "I am well. You will be well also, soon."

Faramir smiled faintly, and nodded once. Then his grip on Boromir’s hand loosened, and he was asleep once more, breathing slowly and evenly. Boromir rose to his feet and dashed a hand over his eyes. The time for weeping was over. His brother lived. War called.

Meanwhile, Bergil led Maedhros through another passage to the room where Curufin was, casting awed glances at the tall Elf as often as he could spare his eyes from the business of directing his feet. Evidently he had heard at least that part of Boromir’s speech which referred to Maedhros. As they moved through the halls, they began to hear the sounds of what appeared to be a rather animated discussion between Curufin and another voice which Maedhros did not recognise, but guessed to be the property of the unfortunate healer whose duty it was to keep his brother from leaving the Houses of Healing at once to seek out his brother and his armour, in that order. 

Maedhros strode into his brother’s room, leaving Bergil by the door, just in time to hear him say, "Will you not at least send for my brother? He knows that we will soon have need of every sword to defend this city!"

"They have sent for me," Maedhros said sternly, "and you," he continued, looking keenly at Curufin, who was sitting up in bed with his shoulder bandaged and his arm in a sling, "could not lift a sword even if I gave you one."

He dismissed the relieved young man who had been the other party to the argument with a nod, and then turned back to meet Curufin’s eyes. His younger brother met his gaze defiantly at first, but then he lowered his eyes and slumped back down on the pillows, with an affectation of sullenness which Maedhros was fairly certain hid real fatigue.

"An orc-arrow?" Maedhros asked, sitting down in the chair by the bedside.

"Yes," Curufin said, "but as it was not poisoned and I can fight with my left hand…"

Maedhros spoke over the rest of his sentence. "You still sit abed, and it has been over a sevennight since you were wounded."

"I had no time to rest or heal while I was with the halflings," Curufin retorted.

"That is true," Maedhros said, "but have you any use in your arm at present?"

"No," Curufin admitted.

"Then either the wound has been reopened and hindered from healing, or it was poisoned. If the former, then the loss of blood would send you straight back to these Houses as soon as you donned your armour. If the latter, weakness would prevent your being any use. Your duty now is to remain here and heal swiftly so that you can join the battle soon and do so in such a manner that you can aid us."

Curufin scowled, but more out of habit than out of wrath. "Very well," he said. "Will you at least tell me what in Arda has been going on? The healers have been going to and fro and worrying for hours, but none of them would tell me what had happened."

"I can tell you a little," Maedhros replied, and, with certain politic omissions, launched into the tale of his and Pippin’s doings since they came to Gondor.

Curufin’s hunger for news had been somewhat sated, and Maedhros had extracted from him a promise not to drive the healers to madness, before he ended his visit and prepared to go in search of Boromir. As he stepped out into the hall, he felt the curious tug on his awareness, as though someone had spoken his name from a great distance and he had only half heard, which could only mean that one of his brothers was trying to reach him by _palantír_. He stepped swiftly into one of the adjoining empty rooms, and closed the door firmly. Then he drew out the smooth, black stone from the pouch at his belt, and immediately recognised Celegorm’s mind. _What news, brother?_ he asked, wondering what had befallen that his brother wished to speak to him now. 

Celegorm had gone to seek out the secret ways into the Enemy’s stronghold, and had remained in utter silence since he parted ways with the remainder of the Fellowship, for his was the errand that brought him nearest to Mordor, and it had been agreed upon that he should not speak to his brothers save at the greatest need. _I am with the halflings,_ he answered. _I can lead them to the borders but no further, lest Thauron perceive me. From there they must go on alone._

_Ill news,_ Maedhros said, _but not wholly unexpected. We must trust to Frodo and Sam, as we have done since the council. _

_Aye. But I have more ill news than that._

Maedhros sent him the mental equivalent a wordless gesture, as though to say, "Go on."

_Thauron has not only sent out a great army to Minas Tirith by land. The Corsairs of Umbar even now sail towards Dol Amroth and the sea-provinces, to draw away any aid that may come to you thence, and, if they can break through, to sail up Anduin and join in the siege themselves._

Maedhros sighed. _We will be besieged soon enough in any case, and any reinforcements would needs break through the whole strength of Thauron’s armies. The beacons of Gondor are lit, but I do not know that any aid will reach us, even were this not so. It is a very great army that I see marching beneath the shadow of Thauron’s clouds._

_He has all but emptied Mordor. Something has happened to frighten him, for though he still guards his borders well, and there are many orcs kept in reserve behind the Towers of the Teeth, yet they are far fewer than I would have expected._

_Amras slew three of his Nazgûl in the forest of Mirkwood, and Mithrandir slew a Balrog on the edges of Fangorn. He cannot be ignorant of that._

A note of grim humour crept into Celegorm’s mind-voice. _That would do it. Well, brother, you sought the Enemy’s attention, and you have it. Your spear has drawn blood, and now the boar is wroth indeed._

_And that means that Frodo and Sam do not. I shall set the spear for the boar and see to it that there are allies left to receive our brave halflings when their errand is done. Do you see to it that they set out on the errand safely. Do you mean to seek this city or to join with the riders of Rohan?_

_I mean to await the halflings upon the borders. If they fell Thauron, I shall know, and be ready to come to their aid._

_That is a perilous venture._

_No more than yours. Keep the boar at arm’s length, brother. The wounded beast is at his most dangerous._

_So he is. Do not call his attention to you! Give Frodo and Sam my regards._

_Give Curufin mine, and tell him to listen to the healers. That wound was poisoned, for all he claimed the contrary, or I am a hobbit._

_I will tell him so, though I doubt he will listen._

_I must go. We draw too near to Minas Morgul for it to be safe for me to speak to you again._

_Then go with the blessing of the Valar._

There was a startled pause, and then Celegorm replied, _You also._

Then his mind withdrew from the _palantír_.

_Varda, look with mercy upon my brother and his charges, and light their path with your stars,_ Maedhros prayed silently, watching as the clouds drew ever closer and closer, heralding the approach of Sauron’s army. By nightfall, he knew that the fumes would have begun to reach the city. By morning at the latest, they would be besieged, and the war for which he had planned with such haste would begin in earnest: the first and perhaps the final test of the hasty alliance he had done all he could to build had come. _Manwë, hear his words and bear him up upon the wings of your eagles,_ he continued. _Ulmo, let your waters bear blessing to him. I deserve neither hearing nor answer, but you have shown me mercy already far beyond my deserts. Hear me now, not for my sake, but for the sake of Middle-Earth. Do not let us have returned to fight for what is good, only to lose all that we hoped to preserve._


	27. The Pass of Cirith Ungol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Under Celegorm's guidance, Frodo and Sam make their way through Ithilien to the borders of Mordor, where, of course, there are more unpleasant things than orcs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slightly late update, but hey, at least I'm not missing a week. Enjoy!
> 
> Update: this chapter has gotten some small but important edits which will play into the events of Chapter 32.

In Ithilien, water poured down from the sky as though the sea had lifted out of its deep bed and hurled itself in wrath upon the land, soaking the trees and the hobbits in equal measure, and turning the soft soil into thick, slippery mud that sucked at Celegorm’s boots and the hobbits’ ankles and clung to the hems of their sodden cloaks. Though it was full-dark by now, and would have been even without the heavy clouds that blotted out the sky, neither of the hobbits even thought of suggesting a halt, for between the near-constant flashes of lightning that illumined the sky with a light so bright that it might almost have been mistaken for day, the accompanying crashes of thunder, and the fierce wind which cracked branches and whipped rain into their faces despite the slight protection of their hoods, sleep and conversation were equally impossible.

The storm had reached its climax with the burst of strange and lurid light from the summit of Minas Morgul, but it did not abate for a long time. Neither hobbit had much of a sense either of time or direction by that point, for the clouds hid both moon and sun, but they were both properly exhausted by the time the driving rain finally began to let up, and Frodo’s hand had begun to creep either towards the Ring or towards his left shoulder when he was not paying attention. Sam was not sure which it was, for Frodo always noticed and halted the movement before it had gone far, but either one was worrying. Before he could say anything, however, Celegorm paused in his stride and said suddenly, "We are drawing closer to the foothills now. We will camp on some hill or outcropping when the rain halts."

Then he strode on, leading them along a winding path through the trees that none save he could see with utter certainty. Sam settled his pack more comfortably on his back, paused for a moment to wring his hood out — it only made the rest of him wetter, but at least it slowed the drip of water down the back of his neck — and plodded on. The rain, mercifully, stopped completely a few minutes later, but it was another half-hour before they reached a camping-spot that was to Celegorm’s liking. The Elf finally halted at the top of a little rise in the ground which was crowned by an old, spreading oak, and said, "We will camp here."

The ground was a little drier under the great tree’s branches, and the hobbits were tired enough not to be overly particular about comforts. There was no chance whatsoever of lighting a fire with the sodden deadwood which lay on the forest floor, even had Celegorm allowed them to try, and so they ate a little bread and dried meat, then spread out their bedrolls among the tree’s roots and did their best to go to sleep. 

Sam could have sworn that he hardly even closed his eyes, but when he opened them again, he looked out on a forest that was illuminated by a strange, dull, diffused twilight. Frodo was sitting up beside him, nibbling on a piece of biscuit and staring out into the forest. Celegorm was standing a little way away, looking towards the lowering mountains. Sam shook the sleep out of his eyes, and asked, "What time is it?"

"I can’t tell," Frodo replied. "It’s been light like this for some time, but it hasn’t gotten any brighter since I woke. Celegorm says it’s been like this for hours. The clouds are still blowing further west. I don’t think it’s going to lift soon."

There was nothing to be said to that. Sam dug a biscuit out of his own pack and they ate in silence. Celegorm did not seem to pay them any heed, but as soon as Sam had finished eating, he turned back to them, and said, "Come. If it were less dark, I would say that we should not start until nightfall, but now Thauron’s devices will serve to hide us as well as his soldiery. We have made good time so far, both to the east and the south. Now we will turn due south, for we can go no further east without leaving the cover of the woods, and that I will not willingly do yet."

The hobbits lashed their bedrolls to their pack as loosely as they could, hoping that they would dry out as they walked, and set off behind him again. At some point as they walked, the dull twilight began to fade into true night once more, but neither of the hobbits could have guessed what the time was. A little after it began to darken, they halted for a few minutes to eat again, but they were soon on the road once more, driven both by the sense of urgency which had grown on them ever since their parting from Faramir on the eve of battle and by a growing unease. The country through which they walked should have been a pleasant and inviting land, but now, dank and dripping and shadowed, it was not a place in which any would wish to linger. 

That night their camp was less uncomfortable than the last only because it was somewhat less wet. They still could not risk a fire, for kindling any light would have risked drawing orcs, or perhaps something worse, down upon them out of the mountains. This time they took watches, though, because there was no way for the hobbits to be sure of the passing of time, Sam suspected that Celegorm had taken a longer share of the night than strictly fell to him. As he was the only member of the party who seemed to be able to tell the time, however, the suspicions could not be confirmed, and in any case Celegorm was not injured and seemed not to be affected by the lack of sleep. Once the pervasive chill of the cold rain had receded a little, Frodo’s wandering right hand had ceased to reach for the Ring (or his shoulder), at least while Sam was watching, but Sam still would make no complaint about his master getting more sleep.

They woke the next morning, not because the sun rose or indeed because any light reached them, but because Celegorm woke and declared it time to go. Only once they had eaten and were marching once more did the cloud-roof overhead slowly begin to change from black to dull brown, allowing a little light to seep through and make their march easier. These strange, timeless marches through a half-visible country seemed at once short and all but interminable, and so it was with little idea of how long they had been marching that the hobbits halted at Celegorm’s upraised hand and looked out from between the tree-boles over a road that began to glow faintly with a sickly light as it ran away from the forest into the brown dimness. 

"Stay off the road," Celegorm whispered to them in a voice that was hardly more than breath. "Go softly. There are things here that are not visible to your eyes."

Without waiting for an acknowledgement, he slipped out from the trees, walking with such care that even hobbit ears could catch no sound made by his passing — neither rustle nor footfall. After him trailed Frodo and Sam, almost holding their breath, for, whether because it was truly so or because of Celegorm’s warning, they had a strange sense that unseen travellers were going to and fro on the glowing road on cruel and evil errands. 

They had not been walking long thus, watching every step and breath lest they make a sound, flitting from shadow to shadow behind their half-seen guide, when they crested one last ridge, and suddenly a whole valley was laid bare to their view. The road’s glow had grown ever brighter as they followed it, and now its sickly light was joined by the rotten luminescence of many pale flowers, fair in form but giving off a faint scent of decay, which dotted the mead which lay between them and the city of Minas Morgul.

Even had Celegorm not breathed its name in their ears, the hobbits would have known in what place they stood. Once Minas Ithil, proud and fair tower of the moon, the city that had been built by Isildur to keep unsleeping watch on the borders of Mordor had long ago fallen to other watchers. Now it glowed with the same corpse-light as the road which led up to it, and filled all the valley with a dire light. Wisps of cold vapour rose from the stream flowing through Imlad Morgul and rested heavily in the evil meads and on the glowing stones of the road. Frodo felt his head swim and his limbs begin to move forward of their own accord. As though from a distance, he watched himself take one step towards the road, then two, then three, gathering speed as he moved. 

Then he was brought back to himself with a jerk as Celegorm’s hand closed on his collar and dragged him backwards. The Elf said nothing, but scowled at him in warning and gestured to the left side of the valley. Frodo could see no path, but he walked on obediently. When they were nearly at the sheer cliff-wall, he realised that what he had taken for a mere roughness in the stone was, in actuality, a flight of horribly steep steps carven into the cliff-side. There was neither rail nor landing to catch the hapless traveller who missed his footing on that long climb, and Frodo shuddered at the very idea of attempting it. _But into Mordor I must go,_ he thought, _and if this is the road by which Celegorm takes me, so be it._

At the foot of the stair they paused for a little as Celegorm gazed out over the valley and the hobbits gazed in apprehension at the stairs. Then, still without speaking, Celegorm motioned for Sam to ascend the stair first. Stout heart that he was, Sam made no protest, by word or gesture, though he looked rather pale as he set his feet on the first steps, careful to lean forward and to the left so that, should he fall, it would not be into the void that already began to open on his right. Frodo followed him, _probably so that Celegorm can catch me if I fall without worrying about my knocking Sam off too,_ he thought wryly.

Then there was breath to spare neither for speech nor thought. Soon both he and Sam were using hands as well as feet to steady themselves as they climbed higher and higher. For a while, when Frodo was foolish enough to look down and to the side, he could see the ever-deepening, yawning blackness of Imlad Morgul illumined by the glow-worm glimmer of the road and city, though that grew fainter every time he looked down. Then, however, the stair delved straight into the cliff, and utter blackness surrounded them. No sound came either out of the dead valley behind them or from the unseen paths before them, and every slap of hand or foot on the smooth-worn stone of the stair sounded unnaturally loud to his ears. 

When Frodo was quite sure that he could not force his aching knees to bend and straighten one more time, or his weary fingers to grasp one more step, he realised that Sam’s dim figure above him was no longer the same shape, and that light, of a sort, was filtering into the tunnel. A moment later, Sam was grasping his hand and hauling him up towards a flat place carved out of the cliff, rather like a small landing. His feet nearly slipped, but Celegorm caught his ankle and heaved him up to sit, panting, beside Sam. He didn’t dare look over the edge to see how far up they had climbed. 

"Well done," Celegorm said softly, stretching out his long legs and leaning back against the cliff-face. "We will rest here for a while. You have passed the worst of the climb now."

Sam flung himself down on the hard stone, rested his head on his pack, and was asleep almost at once. Frodo did the same, but found that his shoulder was aching with a dull, persistent pain that would not let him rest. After his third restless shift to a different position, he caught Celegorm looking inquiringly at him. Not wanting to wake Sam, he gestured to his shoulder and shrugged ruefully. Celegorm nodded, and silently laid his hand over the scar. Warmth seemed to spread from his hand down Frodo’s left arm and into his chest, and the pain receded. He was asleep almost before he had time to realise it.

They lived in a world without time, now, so Frodo could only guess at how long he had slept when he woke again, but the brown dimness had once again receded into true night, and it was almost as dark in the open now as it had been in the tunnel that afternoon. Celegorm still sat exactly where he had been when Frodo went to sleep. Frodo was certain that he had not slept, but he did not seem weary. When he saw that Frodo was awake, he reached over to shake Sam out of his slumbers. Once both hobbits were awake, he wordlessly reached into his pack and handed each of them a cake of _lembas._

As soon as they finished eating and washed down the waybread with a draught of water, it was time to continue the climb. The second stair was at once easier and harder than the first: easier because it was less steep, and, rather than boring straight through the stone, it wound to and fro across the cliff face, harder because now they could see how far they would have to fall if they lost their footing. Frodo was not sure that even Celegorm’s strength could save him if he slipped now, but there was nothing for it but to keep going and try never to look further down than his own feet. 

Reach, step, pull, and he was up another step. Reach with the other hand, step, pull, and another step, and so on and on, as the way stretched out behind him and the darkness receded before him to reveal more stairs and yet more stairs. Eventually, he ceased to look ahead, for he already knew what he would see. 

And yet, for all that the climb seemed endless, it did finally end, and the hobbits sat once more on a stone landing with Celegorm behind them. They might almost have gone in circles and come once more to the head of the Straight Stair, save that the mountains above them, tall though they were, no longer seemed so endless. Frodo could see their peaks rising above his head — far above, but not nearly so far as when they had stood on the valley floor. It seemed to him that they must have climbed all night, for a red dawn seemed to be setting all the clouds on fire on the other side of the mountains, but when he said so to Celegorm, the Elf shook his head. "No," he said, "it is some hours yet till dawn. You see the glow of Orodruin. Thauron has set his plans to work, and so the mountain labours and casts forth flame."

While Frodo gazed on the sky, Sam had been looking around at the landing. "Surely you’re not sending us in there alone?" he said now.

Frodo looked down, and saw that Sam was pointing to the only way on from the landing: a tunnel into the mountain-face once more, from which _darkness poured like a vapour,_ together with an evil smell.

"No," Celegorm said. "I will take you through the tunnel to the pass. Beyond that, however, I cannot lead you. There is a watchtower that overlooks the pass. It is garrisoned by orcs, and with some care you can avoid them. Do not attempt to enter it. Thauron delights in his evil designs for those who are fool enough to set foot in his fortress. Once you are past the tower, you must cross the plains of Gorgoroth towards Mount Doom, bearing as straight as you can. Take no side-roads or detours: orcs use them too often for your safety, and there is none that leads straight to the Cracks of Doom but is closely watched. 

"We filled our waterskins ere we entered Imlad Morgul; we will fill them again here, for the stream which flows into the valley is not yet polluted," and he pointed to a little silent rill of water that flowed among the stones, almost invisible in the darkness. "But even so," he continued, "you will hardly have enough for the journey to the mountain and back, for the air of Mordor is dry. You must ration both food and water. I will give you the _lembas_ out of my pack. It will sustain you better than mortal food."

"And how are we supposed to find our way back to this place?" Sam asked.

"When Thauron falls, I will know it," Celegorm replied. "Your place will to be to get as far as you can away from Orodruin, for that mountain is subject to Thauron’s will, and should he fall, I know not what it will do. Make for this place as best you can, but do not trouble yourselves overmuch. I will find you."

"Right," Sam said, looking somewhat relieved but not entirely. 

"I am the greatest tracker of the House of Fëanor, which has brought forth the three most famed hunters of the Noldor," Celegorm replied, something like pride kindling in his grim face. "If there is any in Middle-Earth who can find two halflings in yonder wasteland, it is I. Now let us see to your packs."

Over the next few minutes, he unpacked all their gear and looked it over with the eyes of a ranger of the wild. His spare waterskin, newly filled, he gave into Sam’s keeping, and the _lembas_ he split between the two of them. A coil of rope was lashed to Frodo’s pack, "for," Celegorm said, "you will be climbing a mountain whose terrain I do not know, and you may need it." 

In turn, he himself took all their gear that he judged unnecessary. Sam was loathe to give up his pans, but yielded to necessity, and to the knowledge that there would be nothing to cook in Mordor, nor any chance of lighting a fire. 

Once their packs had been pared down to the barest necessities only, they braced themselves to face the tunnel. The longer they waited, the less Frodo liked that open hole that gaped like a mouth waiting for food. "Too bad none of us thought to pack a lamp," Sam said ruefully, looking into the utter blackness that lay within. 

"A lamp would do us no good in such darkness as this," Celegorm answered. "Indeed it might do us harm. Whatever made this darkness that devours light would be upon us in an instant if we bore a lamp."

"Something made this darkness? You’re sure this is the right way?"

"Yes, and yes. Let us hope that the maker of the darkness does not pay us heed. If it does, I will hold it off and you must go on alone. If that happens, feel along the walls, and stay in the main passages, but choose those which turn upwards, not down. For now, I shall be your eyes. Come."

And setting one hand on each of their shoulders, he was about to lead them into the dark when he halted suddenly, as though struck by a thought. Then he lifted his hands from their shoulders, and set them instead one upon each hobbit’s head. He bowed his own head, and said solemnly, "Little good may a blessing from such as I do you, but such good as it is, it is yours, and perhaps those to whom I pray will overlook the giver of the blessing for the sake of those who receive it. Varda, look with mercy upon these halflings, and light their path with your stars. Manwë, hear their words and bear them up upon the wings of your eagles. Ulmo, let your waters bear blessing to them."

Then, without further words, he led them into the passage. 

Sam had thought that the night outside had been dark, and likewise the first tunnel. He knew better now. That had been the mere absence of light. This was its active opposite: like light, it found its way into the eye, where it wrought blindness, not only of the vision, but of the mind. The very memory of light seemed faint and far-off in this den of uttermost night. The senses of smell and touch they retained, but Sam rather wished that the darkness plugged his nose as well as it covered his eyes, for there was a stench in the tunnel such as even the cold corpse-smelling air of Imlad Morgul could not match. That had been a cold smell, even an outdoor smell, somehow. This was thick and rank with material decay. "There must be a thousand years of orc-filth in this hole," he muttered, and was surprised to hear the thick rasp that came out.

"Yes," Celegorm said hoarsely, "and more than that."

He did not elaborate. Sam found that he did not want him to. To take his mind off of what the Elf might have meant by "more than orcs," he focussed instead on what touch and smell told him of the layout of the tunnels. Every now and again a breath of somewhat less foul air would strike them from the right hand or the left from some opening in the cave’s wall. If he put out his hand, he could feel the rough tunnel-wall as he walked past, and he could feel the breaks in it too, but he did not do this too often, for the stone had sudden sharp projections that struck him in the hand and took the skin off his fingers.

As they walked on, he began, too, to become conscious of something else. It was not a smell or a sight or anything he could touch, but Sam was quite certain that it was there, and it was watching them with no good intent. He thought Celegorm must have noticed the sense of growing malice as well, for the grip on his shoulder tightened until it was almost painful, but there was nothing to be done but to go on.

All at once, the left-hand wall of the passage through which they walked fell away. Sam had had his hand on the wall, and so he knew the moment that it happened, but he would have known in any case, for the stench, which had been thickening as they walked deeper into the tunnels, redoubled, as did the sense of watching malice. Sam staggered as though at a blow. Only Celegorm’s iron grip kept him from falling, and kept him walking forwards. Even to lift one foot and put it down was an effort under that steady yet unseen gaze of malice, but Celegorm’s hand was like a pair of iron pincers guiding him forward, step by step, and he bent his will to keep moving.

All at once, the fierce pressure on his will was released. Like a spring let go, Sam and Frodo leapt forward, and then all three of them were running. Celegorm’s hands still guided them through the blackness, but more gently now. For perhaps a minute, Sam thought that that was all — that they had escaped. Then the sense of present malice returned, with equal or greater intensity, and he knew that it had been a cruel game. The watcher had allowed them to run for its entertainment. Now it had tired of playing at cat and mouse. 

He raised unwilling eyes towards the point in the blackness from whence the malice came, for its direction was quite clear, and saw, with horror, first one, then two, then four eyes gleaming at them out of the blackness. It was a knowing gleam, an intelligent one, but also a hungry one. "Go," Celegorm said in a voice that rasped like a dying man’s. "Run."

He gave each of them a sharp shove, and then let go of their shoulders. Sam felt at once as though some guiding presence had been withdrawn from him, as though Celegorm had by his touch lent to him a little of his own keenness of sight and hearing, and by loosing his grasp had taken that part back again, but the sense of malice also withdrew a little. Sam heard the ring of steel and realised that that was because its focus was no longer on him. "Run!" Celegorm said again, and his body leapt to obey the command almost before his ears had heard it, and he grasped Frodo’s hand, and then they were both running as hard as they could down the tunnel and away from the eyes.

Away, also, from their guide.

Sam kept the hand that was not holding Frodo’s out in front of him in case there was a sudden turn that he could not see, and that was all that kept him from running straight into the spur of rock that jutted out into the passage, dividing it in two. He stopped, pulling Frodo to a halt as well. "What is it?" Frodo asked.

"The tunnel splits," he answered. 

"Which way goes up?" 

Sam never answered. Muttering voices were speaking out of the left-hand tunnel in a harsh language that they could not understand. "Orcs!" Frodo hissed, and pulled Sam to the right, only to rebound suddenly off of something that was not stone.

Meanwhile, Celegorm, his sword drawn, stared into the eyes of the maker of the darkness, and they did not daunt him. He had cut his way through webs of blackness such as those she spun in the woods of old Beleriand, yes, and hunted their makers with a hatred surpassed only by his hatred of orcs and of those who hindered the fulfilment of his Oath. He bared his teeth, certain that his opponent could both see and understand the gesture, for there was an unquestionable intelligence behind those eyes. "Well, old rag-spinner," he said pleasantly, in Quenya, "I knew that there were a few of you left, but I did not quite expect you here. We have an old quarrel, your kind and mine. Shall we settle it?"

The eyes regarded him thoughtfully. She who owned them had fought many battles against the Elves before, but this fly had a sting such as she had not seen for many years, and, what was more, he did not fear her. She heaved her great bulk between him and her eyes and squeezed herself back into the tunnel whence she had come. There was sweeter meat in these caves now, and it was escaping behind him. She would deal with this stinging fly later, once the meat that the thin one had promised to bring her was safely in her larder.

Sam stared at the blackness of the tunnel, which seemed to the eye no different from the blackness of all the rest of the tunnels, and put out his hand to feel what had stopped Frodo. It was fabric of some kind, soft and yielding, but springing back the moment the pressure was released. And, now that he looked more closely at it, a little light filtered through it, as though from a great distance, and revealed a familiar pattern in the weave. _"Cobwebs!"_ he exclaimed, darkly amused. _"Have at 'em! Down with 'em!"_

He drew his barrow-blade and struck at the nearest strand. It snapped like a cable and writhed furiously, lashing his hand like a whip before it hung still. He winced, holding his stung hand. "This will take forever," he said, "and those orcs aren’t getting any further off."

Indeed, the harsh voices were still speaking from the other tunnel, and they were beginning to hear slapping footfalls as well. "Let me try with Sting," Frodo said. _"It is an Elvish blade, and there were webs of horror in the ravines of dark Beleriand where it was forged."_

With that, he _drew Sting’s keen edge across a whole ladder of cords, and then sprang back. A great, gaping rent opened in the web._

"That’s more like it," Sam said approvingly. 

Another stroke opened the web enough for them to step through. "Let’s hope those orcs don’t think to look behind the webs," said Sam, looking at the thick layers of webs that filled the tunnel before them. 

Frodo readied Sting and swung once more before leaping back to avoid the lashing cords. The orcs evidently did not look further than the great spiderwebs, for there was no noise of heavy feet following them, which was a relief. There was also no sign of Celegorm, however, and that was worrisome. Still, there was nothing for it but to obey his last instructions and carry on, and trust him to find his own way through. None of the webs, however closely woven, could stand against a few strokes from Sting, and so they made their way slowly but steadily onwards towards the light up ahead. The stench and the all-encompassing darkness both lightened as they went on, and Sam found it easier to breathe the nearer they came to the tunnel-mouth. Finally, Frodo set to work on the last web with a will, slashing and springing back again and again until the bottom half of the close-spun fabric was swaying in the wind like a curtain. Then he sheathed Sting, and with a wild yell, his voice ringing shrill now that he was free of the foul air of the pit, he called, "Come on, Sam! We’re almost through!" and raced forward between the grey walls of the past.

Sam did not follow. Something behind him had made a strange sound, and even as he turned to see what it might be, setting his hand on his sword-hilt, a stone struck his head and he fell heavily. 

Celegorm, blade in hand, had followed Shelob as she slipped into her tunnels. He could only hope that Frodo and Sam would find the way out: there was only one fork left in the tunnel, and if they recalled his directions they would do well. He dared not go after them now, for he knew well the dwimmer-craft of such spiders as this. If he left her to her own devices, she would find some way to strike at them again as they wended their way through the pass — perhaps she would even wait until he had left the hobbits perforce on the border. He could not allow that. He was half blinded by her darkness and half smothered by the stench, but he was the greatest hunter of the Noldor and he did not need either eyes or nose to follow a quarry so large as this one.

The passages through which Shelob led him could not have been made either by Men or Orcs, but by the great upheaval of land which had reared the mountains through which they wound. Great rents in the stone with once-jagged edges softened and slimed by centuries of his quarry dragging her great bulk through them met unmeasurable chasms where a false step would have sent him tumbling to his death, but always there was a ledge or a step or a rope by which the spider could ascend, and he after her. 

Finally they came to a place where he could see the entrance, up a steep and slimy slope with scarcely a foothold, and spears of stone standing out from the floor at the foot. Up went Shelob, eight legs with their eight claws finding tiny fissures in the stone of wall and floor, and squeezed her hideous body through the entrance. Up went Celegorm after her, hands flattened on the filthy stone, fingers seeking out the tiniest of possible holds, boot-toes scrabbling for a hold and finding none. There was a cry from outside that sounded like the voice of a hobbit, but he could not catch the words. He reached a little further, desperate now to reach the edge, but his hand slipped as he pulled himself up, and he slithered back down the slope, unable to find a grip, and landed hard against the sharp-pointed stones below. He had no time to heed the pain. There was more shouting outside, and the hobbit sounded desperate now. The words, "filth," and "touch him!" filtered through to his ears.

Very well. Climbing the tunnel floor was out of the question. A yell of blind rage echoed in his ears as he found his first hole in the pockmarked stone of the wall, and, like a spider on the wall himself, he began to climb, half leaning on the floor, half on the wall. 

Then it was silent. Too silent. Celegorm gritted his teeth and climbed faster. Then, as a black shadow fell over his vision, he looked up to see that Shelob had returned and was struggling through the entrance as though wounded. One of her legs was missing the claw, and greenish ooze dripped from her belly. What was more, she carried no hobbit. Celegorm breathed a sigh of relief. It seemed that the hobbits had managed somehow to drive off their assailant. Now it was up to him to finish the job, and he could think of few things that he would enjoy more, other, perhaps, than taking his revenge upon Thauron himself. Letting himself slip back to the bottom of the slope again, careful to avoid the sharp stones this time, he scrambled to his feet and drew his sword. 

Shelob was in pain and desperate, and the stinging fly no longer seemed so insignificant to her, as he barred her way back to her safe, hidden holes, sword and eyes both glimmering with light that sent pain lancing through her wounded eyes. She readied her poison — to kill, not to play games, for this meat was dangerous — and lunged forward with all her weight.

Celegorm smiled grimly to himself as the spider launched herself at him with all her bulk and strength. He hated her kind, but he could not deny that he enjoyed a battle like this. He hurled himself to the side to avoid her pincers, and then had to change his direction in midair as a clawed leg swiped at him. He slashed hard and swiftly at it, cleaving the leg just below the upper joint, and she rolled sideways, away from him, pincers dripping poison as they snapped at his shield-arm. He stepped backwards and stabbed upwards at the maimed and hideous head with all his strength, but a flailing foreleg caught him across the chest before his blade could strike home and sent him flying towards the opposite wall, and she advanced on him once more, jaws wide, malice lighting her remaining eyes with a fell flame. Laughing even as he gasped for breath — this was such a fight as he had not had for an Age — he regained his feet just in time to roll forward, out of the way of the poisoned points, and stab upwards. He could see that she had already been wounded here, and wondered briefly which of the hobbits had done it, and how. His sword was longer than theirs, and he drove it in to the hilts, before withdrawing it. He slashed at her legs once more as he sprang away before she could crush him, but a clawed foot caught his left shoulder as he tried to roll clear, and he was flipped over and pressed to the earth by all the force of her weight even as his wrist twisted and the sword left his hand.

This insolent fly could sting indeed, and Shelob was angry now. Never before had she been thus defied, and now twice! First by a little thing that she could hardly even call a meal, that had driven her back into her tunnels with no more than a sword — but a sword that gleamed with agonising starlight and had taken two of her eyes. Miserable little gnat! She would dispose of this one, crush the life out of him and rend his flesh, and then she would throw his body down before the little fools he seemed so eager to defend, and kill them even as they mourned him. She pressed down harder, feeling her claw begin to pierce the yielding flesh. She would enjoy this.

The spider’s claw was sharp, and it was pressing down harder on his shoulder with every moment. Celegorm could not move his shield-arm now, and the pressure was making it difficult to breathe. He felt a sudden sharp pain and knew that the she-demon had drawn blood. His sword was out of reach on the ground now. Reaching across his body with his right hand, he fumbled at his belt for the hunting knife that he always carried there. Fortunately, he had not fallen on top of it. He waited until his grip was firm on the hilt to draw it, and then drove it in to the spider’s ankle, just above her claw, and twisted savagely.

She had no voice to scream like a wounded she-wolf, but the jerks and twitches of her legs as he hacked at the joints of her legs made her rage and pain both very clear. The claw that had crushed him to the earth was severed, and the one beside it, for she had leaned too much of her weight on that side to avoid him easily. Reaching for his sword with his left hand, he faced her once more, and saw that malice had been joined by something else in those gleaming eyes. Fear.

Shelob pulled back. Four of her legs were clawless now, and one was severed at the high joint and utterly useless. She had slain and eaten many that looked like this Elf in the forests of Beleriand, but never had she met one that fought like this. Even now, after she had half crushed the breath out of him, he was laughing at her, teeth bared like a wolf, holding a blade in either hand, and power and heat and painful light seemed to fill the air about him even as the darkness surrounded her. If she was to kill him, she needed time and somewhere he could not so easily escape her poison. She began, limping, to back towards one of her tunnels, one where he would not be able to follow without falling right into her.

As the spider began to retreat, Celegorm saw that she was no longer so sure of her footing as before. He sprang forward, careful to avoid the pincers which still reached for him, snapping, and drove his knife up towards her eyes even as he brought his sword down on her left foreleg with all his strength. Then he shoved himself back and rolled aside.

Shelob had eight legs, or she had had them. Now she had six, and two were lame. The floor was slick with slime, bled from her wounds, and her claws could find no purchase. Her scrabblings grew frantic as she tried to stay upright and retreat from this terrible Elf with his keen blade and his gleaming eyes and his laughter, but they were not enough.

She fell heavily, and Celegorm was on her before she could rise. Twice he drove his sword into the gap between horrible head and hideous body. At the second stroke, her spasms ceased to have any purpose and became the mere flailings of a dying beast. The last child of Ungoliant had fallen.

Panting, bruised, and covered in filth, but victorious and mostly unharmed, Celegorm wiped his sword as clean as he could on his rather tattered cloak sheathed it, and resumed the climb. He had had no time to listen for any sign of the hobbits during his fight. Hopefully they were well on their way into Mordor now.

It was not long before he reached the top of the steep tunnel and hauled himself out into the light, or what passed for it, once more. Before he went any further, he looked about for the traces of the fight. He noticed first that there were no bodies, though there was a trail of slime from where the spider must have been wounded — he wondered greatly which of the hobbits had managed that — to the entrance wherein he stood now. Then, however, he saw a less heartening sign: bits of torn spider-silk lying on the dust beside the partially over-trodden print of a body. Worse yet were the orc-tracks, trampling all round and obliterating any other signs of hobbits, some of them deeper.

One of the hobbits had been stung then, but which? He could not be sure, but the yells of rage had sounded like Sam. Had the spider killed Frodo, or merely paralysed him with the intent of taking him back to her larder? He had seen such spiders before, and, unless resisted, they preferred live meat. She had certainly not been striking to capture when she fought him. Alive or dead, however, made no difference. Frodo had the Ring. He, at least, was most likely in the hands of orcs. Sam had either been taken prisoner or had escaped, but even if he had escaped, he alone could not free his master from an entire watchtower full of orcs. If both had been captured, there was little to no chance that they would escape. 

Celegorm bowed his head. His presence would draw Sauron’s attention, and he knew it, but he could not leave the hobbits in the hands of the Enemy, much less the Ring. Besides that necessity, all else mattered not a whit. He looked up towards the tower of Cirith Ungol, lit with a dire red light, and made an expression that a very foolish man might, perhaps, have taken for a smile. Then, his mind made up, he strode forwards. At the saddle of the pass, he felt the concealment he had drawn around himself in Imlad Morgul vanish, and knew that if Thauron were to look his way, he would be revealed at once. _If you want me,_ he thought almost merrily, _come and get me!_


	28. Where Many Paths and Errands Meet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three companies travel their roads towards Minas Tirith, and the greatest battle since the Last Alliance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short-ish chapter this week, especially compared to the 7,000 word behemoths I have been posting, but it covers a lot of ground and sets up the next chapter, which is already shaping up to be massive.

Gimli sat behind Legolas on the tall grey horse that had borne them from Mirkwood, and wondered if dawn would come. They had left before sunrise, but had now been riding swiftly for some time, and the sky remained dark. If he looked up, he could see stars behind them, but before them the sky was blank and black. "What devilry is this that puts out the stars?" he asked softly, to himself, but Legolas heard.

"Devilry of Sauron," he answered. "His Orcs fear the sunlight, and so he covers the sky as they march to Gondor. _When the darkness reaches the city, the siege will begin."_

To take his mind away from the other darkness that lay before them, Gimli turned the conversation. "Well, it seems you will have plenty of opportunity to try out that new bow the Lady of the Wood gave to you!"

"Indeed I will. That the bows of the Galadhrim are mighty, the orcs of Isengard and Moria have cause to know. I will rejoice to teach the orcs of Mordor that same lesson. But what gift did you receive? Andúril glistens now in a sheath of gems, and I bear my bow, but you have no such weapon."

Gimli smiled, though he knew Legolas could not see him. "I have seen much gold and many jewels under the Lonely Mountain, and many works of craft, and until our council of war I thought never to see their like. Then I knew that I had thought wrong, for there was a beauty which surpasses any works of craft, yea, even of the most skilled of my people. And so, when we departed, I asked for something by which to remember the greatest beauty I have seen in Middle-Earth."

"Which was?"

"The Lady Galadriel, who surpasses the jewels of the earth even as do the stars. _I asked for one hair from her golden head,_ which outshines all the gold ever wrought. _She gave me three,_ and I shall bear them into this battle as a memory that even in these grey days beauty endures."

It was Legolas’ turn to smile into the darkness as he guided his horse up the steep twists and turns of the path that led to the Haunted Mountain. "That was a noble gift," he said.

"Noble indeed. Whatever befalls us upon this road, I rejoice to have seen the Lady of Lórien."

Until then, Aragorn, who rode before them, had given no sign that he heard their speech, but now he spoke aloud, for the first time since their departure of Rohan, and said, "Gimli, without doubt you have received the greatest gift of us all. It is no less fitting to our errand and station than the gifts that Legolas and I bear. The Lady of Lórien knows perhaps best of any living what we may face upon this dark road."

He was silent for a moment, then spoke again:  
_"These are the words of the Malbeth the Seer, that he spoke to Arveduil, Last King of Arnor,_ and these words the Lady Galadriel spoke to me ere we departed:  
_Over the land there lies a long shadow,  
westward reaching wings of darkness.  
The Tower trembles; to the tomb of kings  
doom approaches. The Dead awaken;  
for the hour is come for the oathbreakers:  
at the Stone of Erech they shall stand again  
and hear there a horn in the hills ringing.  
Whose shall the horn be? Who shall call them  
from the grey twilight, the forgotten people?  
The heir of him to whom the oath they swore.  
From the North shall he come, need shall drive him:  
he shall pass the Door to the Paths of the Dead._  
It is said in Rohan that _the way is shut, for it was made by the dead and the dead keep it until the time comes,_ and that there is no way to know if the time has come save by trying the door, but I take hope from this prophecy that the time is come indeed for the way to be open and the oathbreakers to fulfil their promises to Gondor: for now the wings of darkness reach westward indeed, and I am the Heir of Isildur, to whom the oathbreakers swore their oath, come from the North to pass the door under Dwimorberg and summon the Dead to the Stone of Erech. Come!"

He spurred his horse on, and rode out onto the narrow strip of green that was the hold of Dunharrow, resting high up on the lap of the mountain. Up the centre of the plain wound the selfsame road that they had followed so far, bordered on either side by unshaped stones that thrust up out of the green turf _like teeth out of green gums._ Some had fallen or broken in the long years since their builders had set them up. All in all, it did not look as though it would be a pleasant place even in the full sunlight. Now, in the brown twilight, it had an evil look, and Gimli felt as though unfriendly eyes looked out at him from among the ancient stones. Aragorn did not hesitate, however, but led his company onward. After him rode Legolas, beside Halbarad now that the road was wide enough for two to ride abreast, and after them rode the sixty grey-clad Rangers of the North, with the Sons of Elrond bringing up the rear. A river of cloud flowed overhead, and a chill seemed to flow out from the dark pine-wood before them, but they rode on, and as they entered the wood the darkness seemed to swallow them. The Heir of Isildur rode to the Paths of the Dead.

Storm-clouds had been growing in the East as the riders of Rohan and Rivendell made their way towards Isengard, but the minds of the travellers had been on other things, and any who noticed had simply put it down to a storm. It could be taken for an ordinary storm no more, however: as they rode back down the road to Isen, half the sky was covered, and the clouds were still spreading. Gandalf looked darkly under his eyebrows at the growing storm, but said nothing. Théoden, at the head of the column of Riders, had remained silent since they left Isengard. Merry found himself missing Pippin and his easy chatter more than ever. He was glad to have seen justice done for Théodred and all the Men and Elves who had died in the battle with Saruman’s forces, but he would have welcomed some relief from his own grim mood.

When the relief came, it was not at all what he would have expected. As they neared the great swath of scorched ground that marked the site of Gandalf’s battle with Saruman, he heard Éomer exclaim in surprise. Peering around the Rider, he saw that where there had been only burned stumps and bare ground before, now there were many tall, green trees on either side of the road. This would have been strange enough in itself, but the trees also seemed to be moving. Merry _stuck his knuckles in his eyes,_ shook his head, and looked again. The trees were still there and still moving. _"What in Middle-Earth or out of it is this?"_ he asked.

"I would say some wizardry of Saruman meant to trap us, were he not slain."

"Wizardry?" Gandalf asked. "No, this is neither Saruman’s work nor mine, nor the work of any wizard. The Forest has awakened. Well met, Fangorn of Fangorn’s Forest!"

Merry could not see to whom this last was addressed until what he had taken for merely another one of the moving trees took two long steps forward towards the road, and said in a deep, booming voice like thunder echoing in a hollow log, _"Hoom, hom. Young master Gandalf._ I see that you have already been to Isengard. I am glad of it, for we are bound for Isengard, to heal some of the hurts that you and Gwaihir spoke of, _burarum_." He rumbled angrily, and the noise was _like discord on a great organ. "Wood and water, stock and stone, I can master,"_ he continued, _"but there is a wizard to manage there._ How have you dealt with him?"

"In the end, it was not I who dealt with him," Gandalf answered, "but he is slain and his soldiers are scattered."

Treebeard looked rather surprised. "Hoom! It is no easy task to slay a wizard, especially one like Saruman! He had fallen from his wisdom of late, certainly, but still he was very clever with his _mind of metal and wheels._ Who did so, and why?"

"That did I." Théoden answered. "Were it not for him, my son would yet live. I slew him to bring justice to the sons of Rohan who fell in battle with his troops, and even to bring justice to that wretched worm Gríma whom he slew before our eyes."

Treebeard’s deep, green eyes were wide as he looked at Théoden. "It is a pity that he could not be healed," he said, "but sometimes the rotten tree must fall so that the forest may grow clean again." He rumbled again, but now the sound was contemplative rather than angry. Then he turned to Gandalf, and said, "I think I know what you would ask of me now. Do not fret yourselves about guarding Isengard. _Trees will come back to live there, old trees, wild trees. A squirrel will not move in the ring of Isengard, but the Ents shall know of it."_

"That is good news," Gandalf said, "and we have need of that at present. But we must ride to Gondor with all speed, and so I have no time to give you longer thanks."

"Hasty folk you are," Treebeard said, shaking his head slowly, "but perhaps in these times there is need of haste."

"Wait!" Merry shouted out, leaning around Éomer, and was a little surprised at his own daring. Treebeard’s great leafy head swung towards him. "Gandalf said you had seen Frodo and Sam. Can you tell us anything about them?"

Treebeard gazed curiously at him. "Hoom," he said. "For a creature who does not appear in the old lists, you hobbits are certainly turning up in a great many places these days," he said wonderingly. "They were hasty folk too, and worried about their friend the Elf, but they were well enough, and, hom, quite careful about telling me anything of where they were going or why, except that they meant to follow the Entwash down to Anduin and were in a very great hurry. I set Quickbeam to look after them; he was always hasty, for an Ent, hom. He saw them well on their road and said that they looked to make good speed." 

"Thank you," said Merry. It was not much more than he had known before, but it was good to hear news of Frodo and Sam from someone who had seen them lately.

Gandalf and Théoden exchanged a few more words with Treebeard, and Maglor said something in Quenya, to which Treebeard responded, but then they were on the road again, for all in the company were anxious to reach Gondor with all possible speed. They forded the Isen at what would have been nightfall had not the clouds already all but covered the sky. The sun cast a last red-gold gleam on the waters of the river as they crossed, gilding the foam cast up by the horses’ hooves, and then all was dark.

Two nights after the Grey Company had passed the gate under Dwimorberg, Erkenbrand of the Westfold arrived at Edoras at the head of two thousand Riders, and the muster of Rohan was complete. Nine thousands, armed, horsed, and provisioned, waited only for the command to ride out to the rescue of Gondor.

As Théoden had instructed, Éowyn sent the larger part of the host on towards Gondor as soon as all was in readiness, setting Háma of the King’s Guard over the men of Edoras and its townlands, and Erkenbrand over the host as a whole. She reserved to herself a single éored under Marshall Elfhelm, a man whom she had known from childhood as a trusty and wise courtier of her uncle’s, and together they led all the inhabitants of Edoras who were not to ride to Gondor to the comparative safety of the hold of Dunharrow. Though they could not ride so fast as had Aragorn and the Grey Company, yet all were mounted, and so they made good time to the hold. Most preferred to camp near the town of Harrowdale, at the foot of the mountain, for though it was a more exposed position than the high valley that lay halfway up the mountain, it was further from the lowering pines that seemed to reach long, clutching fingers of darkness towards the green sward and from the cold airs that came drifting down along the old Dimholt Road. 

All that was left of the day, or rather the brown twilight that now passed for day, Éowyn spent in seeing to the small businesses and confusions that always arises when many people journey together with much baggage. She had listened, too, to the confused and anxious tales told by the folk of Harrowdale, for they had much to say of grey horsemen who had ridden by like a wind in the night, and of hosts of dead men who had ridden up to the mountain after them, and had hidden her own uneasiness to reassure them.

It was only after she had seen all settled, as well as it might be, that she called for Elfhelm, who had worked tirelessly all that day to make the camp safe and see to it that guards were posted and a place prepared in the high hold should the people need to retreat there in haste. "My lord Elfhelm," she said as soon as he entered the tent where she had held her court that day, "I know that you and some part of your men will depart tomorrow to rejoin the main host, once our folk are armed and set in readiness."

"Yes, my lady."

"I will ride with you."

Elfhelm was not a man prone to asking over-many questions, nor to questioning his orders, but he was a man who knew his own mind, and she knew from the look of his face what he meant to say before he said it. "My lady, far be it from me to disobey your word, but if you will hear my counsel in this, I say that it is not wise. Our people need a leader, those who remain behind not less than those who ride to battle. They trust in you, and they love you. If you leave them now, they will be in great fear, not only for this coming battle, but for you."

"I cannot sit idle when such deeds as this are afoot, Elfhelm," she answered. "The Lord Aragorn has taken his kinsmen into the Dimholt Road, and the Dead have ridden after him. They answer to no man, as Baldor son of Brego learned to his grief. We cannot trust that the Lord Aragorn and his folk will survive the journey under the Haunted Mountain, far less that they will bring aid from the outlands to Gondor. 

"But more than that, my cousin is slain. My uncle and my brother ride to Gondor, to battle and renown. If doom comes for them, it comes for us also, sooner or later. I weary of waiting for it out of duty, of hiding in the hills and staying behind when the men ride away to fight! There is neither honour nor renown in dying like a hunted hare in the heather. If die I must, I will do it on the field, that those who come after may remember me as something more than a dry-nurse. Help me or hinder me, but you cannot hold back my hand from my purpose. I ride to Gondor. If none will have me to ride with them, then I ride alone."

"You force my hand, my lady. I would not have you ride to Gondor at all, but if you must ride I will not leave you to do it alone."

"That is well. I will be no trouble to you, nor need any other know of me. To them I will be Dernhelm, a youth of Harrowdale, and no more. None is to know of me under any other name."

"Very well, my lady. I will speak to none of this."

"That is well. We leave at dawn?"

"Yes, my lady."

If Merry Brandybuck, from his place behind Éomer — for none had contested his right to ride with the king to whom he was bound by Théodred’s last command — saw a familiar pair of grey eyes looking warily out from the helmet of a slender rider in Elfhelm’s éored as they rode out of the darkness, he said nothing of it. He did, however, bow his head respectfully to their owner as Éomer halted to greet Elfhelm, and saw the nod returned before the rider disappeared back into the ranks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: the storm breaks over Minas Tirith.
> 
> Comments are always appreciated, and encourage me to keep writing! Thank you very much to everyone who has commented and kudos-ed so far. I can't believe that this thing is 28 chapters long. Seriously. How did that happen?


	29. The Battle of the Pelennor Fields: Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Battle is joined on the fields of Gondor. Minas Tirith holds out against the full force of Sauron's armies and hopes that reinforcements will come in time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To quote Théoden: so it begins. I originally planned to make this all one chapter, but there's so much going on that I'm having to split it into parts.

Side by side, Celeborn and Galadriel gazed out over the plains of Rohan. Galadriel now stood tall once more, and the shadow of pain in her eyes had lightened, though great grief still lay there. She was clad now in a simple gown lent by one of the Rohirrim, but none could have mistaken her for any other than a great lady. Celeborn’s spear-arm still rested in a sling, and he wore bandages beneath his tunic where the Balrog’s fist had struck his chest. From where they stood in the high hold of Dunharrow, if they looked west, their keen eyes could pick out the faint glimmer on the plain that was the golden roof of Meduseld, now empty. Their gazes, however, were turned eastward, towards the dark ribbon winding across the plains that was the river Ondló, or Entwash, which fed into the Anduin, upon whose shores stood Minas Tirith, the city upon which all their hopes save one now hung. All the Riders who could be spared had departed that morning, but the same darkness that had muted their horns and hoofbeats when they set out had swallowed the dim stars of their spear-points hours ago. Neither of them had failed to notice that the Lady Éowyn had not come to bid the riders farewell, any more than they had failed to notice the oddly slender young man who stayed as close as could be to Elfhelm in the press of the riders.

Even among the Edain, it is far from uncommon for those who have long been married to echo one another’s thoughts. Among the Eldar, whose marriages are as much of the mind as the body, if not more, it is even more common. So it was that Galadriel knew of whom Celeborn spoke when he said softly, "She had too much of the warrior in her to remain here."

"Or too little of all else in the world where she found herself."

"That is no blame to her."

"No. But she will not find what she seeks on the field of battle, or if she does find it, it will not be what she thought it would."

They stood again in silence for some time, until footsteps behind them announced the arrival of one of the Rohirrim, for one of their own folk would have made no sound. The boy blanched a little when they turned as one to face him before he had made his presence known, but their faces were kind, and after a moment his fear eased. "Forgive me, my lord and lady," he said, "but I was sent to ask if you had seen aught of the Lady Éowyn this day, for she did not go out to bid the riders farewell, and she is not in her tent, nor has any of our people seen her since yestereve."

It was Celeborn who answered, "She rode out with Elfhelm the Marshal, in the guise of one of his riders."

"Then I must go back at once, that we may send after her!"

"She will not come," Galadriel said. "All that she loves most has ridden into yonder shadow. She cannot but ride after it."

The boy looked at them uncertainly. "But if the Lady Éowyn is gone and will not return, who is to lead us?"

Celeborn and Galadriel exchanged glances, and then Celeborn said gently, "That will we, if your people will accept us. We will see to it that all is kept in order until your king returns. Come. Let us go and speak to the rest of the people."

The field of the Pelennor was bathed in a strange and sickly light. The clouds belched forth from Mount Doom had covered over half the sky, and what sunlight filtered through them was more green than golden. Still, as the sun drew west, there was enough light for Maedhros and his company of Rangers to see their work. Before Boromir went to oversee Captain Mallor’s direction of the great exodus from the lower circles of Minas Tirith, Maedhros had suggested to him that, though the Pelennor wall could not now be set in defence, yet there were ways to make the Enemy pay for his passage into the fields. Boromir had called Mablung and Damrod, Rangers of Ithilien who served under Faramir, and repeated his words to them. Both were wroth with Sauron for the wounding of their Captain, and all too eager to find some cunning way of striking back at him ere even his soldiers were within bowshot of the walls.

It had not taken them long to gather what supplies they needed, for most of what Maedhros meant to do would use such things as they could find outside the wall. About them the inhabitants of the townlands went to and fro, gathering into the city all they could carry of their possessions, especially food and tools. It was to the empty houses and deserted fields, however, that Maedhros and the Rangers turned their steps. They had warned the soldiers who guided the toiling folk in the fields that none was to follow in their steps, for in the darkness now lurked many traps for the unwary foot or wheel.

The sun had set in a bloody haze, painting the fair white Tower of Ecthelion scarlet with its dying beams, and then the pall of cloud had covered all the sky. All that afternoon and evening, the City of Kings had been full of going to and fro, of the thud of hammers and the tread of feet and the clash of steel, as soldiers mustered in the first circle of the city, labourers brought in from the field of the Pelennor all that they could save of stock and seed, tools and wood and stone, and all those who could not fight withdrew into the higher circles. Some of them would remain. Others would seek the secret way out of the city through Rath Dínen, and thence make for the outlands of Gondor, or perhaps Rohan. Now all was deadly quiet. Pippin, clad in the livery of the Citadel Guard, with his barrow-blade by his side, shivered a little under the black tunic. His mail seemed cold to the touch, though he had worn it for some hours now. There was a chill in the air that seemed to touch both mind and body, and it was utterly dark, for the pall of cloud had devoured both moon and stars. The white stone of the City glimmered strangely at times, as though rendering back the light it had received in the day, and that was all that made it possible to see at all, for the order had gone out that _no lights were to shine out from the city walls._

All this Pippin knew because he had spent the afternoon running to and fro as swiftly as his feet would take him, sometimes lending a hand where it seemed needed, but mostly carrying messages between Boromir and Maedhros and their captains. Now he was off duty, sitting in the guardhouse on a bench that was too tall for him, swinging his tired feet and wondering if he would ever again relax enough to go to sleep. Around him, a number of men were doing much the same thing, barring the swinging feet. Captain Eärendur had swept his gaze over them, murmured something under his breath about boys and their first battles, told them to go get some sleep, and then proceeded to disappear into the adjoining barracks and take his own advice. The more experienced soldiers, such as Beregond, had done the same. Pippin, however, and a number of the younger men — Pippin had been very startled to learn that quite a number of them were actually younger than he was — were convinced that sleep was impossible, and so they sat here in the dim antechamber of the guardhouse, watching their nightly allotment of candles burn lower behind the screen that kept any light from shining out of the window, and wondering if the noises they heard were real or imagined. They spoke seldom and in whispers, for silence as well as darkness was the rule for the night, and they had no wish to disturb the slumbers of those in the other room. 

Pippin shivered again and whispered to Penlod, the youth who shared his bench, "I wish it would start already," he said softly. _"I don’t want to be in a battle._ I’m just a hobbit, and I don’t know what good I thought I could do here. _But waiting on the edge of one I can’t escape is even worse."_

"All the old hands say that the waiting is worse than the battle," Penlod replied. "After tonight, I believe them. As for the rest, I do not think that any in this City would refuse your service in these times. We have need of the aid of all people of goodwill, Lord Boromir says." Then he stopped speaking for a moment, and cocked his head, then whispered, "Did you hear that, Peregrin?"

Pippin had heard it, or felt it — something that was half a sound and half a tremor in the earth, but still so faint as to mock at both hearing and touch. "Yes," he whispered back. "What is it?"

"An army," Penlod said. "Thousands and thousands of feet, all marching in time. They’re coming."

"We know they’re coming, Penlod," said a gruff and rather tired but not unkind voice, speaking at a normal volume. 

Pippin turned to see the speaker, and discovered that Eärendur had put his head out of the barracks and was looking at them all. He shook his head again. "Staying up to listen to your enemy’s marching will not make him come sooner," he said. "And you will fight the better tomorrow if you sleep tonight. Nor will the enemy come upon us so swiftly that you do not have time to arm yourselves. Leave the watching to those who have the watch. There is room enough in the barracks for all of you and more."

Whether it was the reassurance or the repeated command, Pippin found himself obeying, though he was still convinced, even as he cast himself down on a bed that was nicely roomy and covered with a blanket large enough for three hobbits, that he would find no sleep that night.

He was proven wrong when he was jolted out of sleep by a hand seizing and shaking his foot. "Wake, Peregrin!" a voice hissed from somewhere near him.

Pippin tried to sit up and found that Man-sized blankets had their disadvantages as well as their advantages: he had somehow manage to wind himself up into a sort of cocoon, and was hopelessly tangled. He flailed wildly until his head emerged from the blankets and he was squinting into the dimly-lit face of Beregond, who seemed to be trying not to smile. "Is it dawn?" Pippin asked.

"I know not," Beregond replied. "All times are alike now. But it is time to wake."

"They’re here?"

"Yes."

And with that Beregond disappeared back into the half-light of the guardhouse. Pippin arrayed himself hastily, girded on his sword, hungrily devoured his ration of bread and water, and followed the nearest guardsman out of the barracks and into the dark street. Outside the guardhouse, he could hear that the marching had grown far closer and louder, but he had no time to think about it: Eärendur had given them just time enough to line up outside the guardhouse before he led them towards the walls. Pippin fell into line two ranks behind him, feeling very small as he took three steps to Penlod’s two, but also feeling rather unexpectedly as though he belonged exactly where he was. 

He had never in his life been further from the place he had carved out for himself in the Shire as a wild young Took — from Merry, from Frodo, from days spent out in the fields stealing Farmer Maggot’s mushrooms — but then, he was not exactly a wild young Took anymore. Back in the Shire, he had known nothing of Sauron, or evil, or of the kind of adventure that could send himself into a battle and his cousin into the very land of the Enemy. The hobbits who had stayed in the Shire were still like that, he supposed. Now, however, he did know all of that, and he also knew that he had to do everything he possibly could to fight Sauron and help Frodo. These tall Men of Gondor had known about the Enemy all their lives, and they, too, knew that they must fight him with all their strength, and that made a kind of kinship between Pippin and them. Unless he’d been allowed to go with Frodo, he could think of no better place to be, and no better comrades to fight beside when Sauron’s army reached them. He lifted his chin and straightened his shoulders and marched on. He knew quite well that he was far from ready for whatever was coming, but Frodo was facing it too, alone except for Sam and Celegorm, and he was probably even less ready. The least Pippin could do for Frodo’s sake would be to face what came to him bravely.

Meanwhile, Boromir and Maedhros stood together in the throne room. Maedhros had set aside the begrimed clothes that he had worn in his labour in the fields, and now both were fully armoured, saving only their helms. Neither had slept at all that night. After Boromir had seen the folk of the first and second circles safely moved up higher, and the youngest and eldest safely on their way into the mountains through Rath Dínen, and Maedhros and the Rangers had finished laying such traps as they could contrive for the enemy, Boromir had summoned Captain Eärendur of the Tower Guard, and the three of them had arranged watches so that the walls were always well-defended, but each company could still find a little time to sleep. 

Now Maedhros had taken his _palantír_ out and was looking into it keenly, while Boromir paced to and fro across the great hall. It had liked neither of them to spend the day in the throne room, and it liked Boromir little that Maedhros still carried his _palantír,_ but he could not deny the usefulness of knowing the enemy’s movements.

When Maedhros restored the _palantír_ to its pouch and looked up, Boromir strode back over to him with a look of keen interest, mingled with worry and distaste. Maedhros met his eyes with a grim look. "Thauron’s forces cannot match those that his master could field in the First Age, but they are formidable nonetheless. I can see only a little in this devil’s mirk; it was meant to blind the eyes of the mind as well as the body, and unless I wish to challenge Thauron outright I cannot burn it away, but I have no doubt that he has been brewing new devilries in the ages since I last knew him. You must be prepared for the gate to be breached."

Boromir’s mouth thinned into a grim line, and he stared down at the _palantír_ as though it were to blame for this latest news. Finally, he asked, "How long do we have?"

Maedhros shook his head. "Your gates are mighty works of craft. Perhaps three days. Perhaps longer, but we cannot bank on it."

"I will instruct Mallor to set his men to work on the engines on the wall and see that they can be turned inward upon the city should it be needful." He fell silent for a while, then suddenly asked, "Will the aid from Rohan reach us in time?"

"There, too, my view is clouded," Maedhros replied, "and I no longer dare to speak to my brothers lest we be overheard. But if they set out as swiftly as Maglor seemed to believe they would when last we spoke, I have hope that they will arrive ere we are overrun."

"Then we will not block up the arch of the gate, for if Rohan comes, we must be ready to aid them."

At that moment, a messenger came striding into the hall, looking stern and worried. "My lords," he said, "Captain Mallor sent me to tell you that the enemy is crossing the river and will soon enter the field of the Pelennor."

"Very well," Boromir replied. "Tell him that we must be ready for the first circle to be breached in three days’ time. He will know what to do."

The man’s face grew pale, but he nodded brusquely, turned on his heel, and strode back out into the gloom. Boromir reached for his helm. "To the wall?" Maedhros asked, doing the same.

"Yes. To the wall."

The orcs had brought many planks and barges and boats to the edge of Anduin, and now they swarmed across the river and towards the half-repaired Pelennor wall like beetles. The front ranks halted for a little along the line of the wall, evidently expecting some resistance, but it was not long before a harsh shout of mirth went up, and they clambered over and around the wall with reckless abandon. Their laughter changed abruptly when the first rank to reach the fields fell to the ground, clutching at mangled feet and hurling themselves backwards to avoid the spikes that had lain hidden amid the stubble. The check did not last long, however, for the front ranks were pressed onwards by the swarming multitudes behind, whether they willed or no, though their advance slowed somewhat.

It slowed more when one of the great trolls that dragged the siege engines forward stumbled as though its feet had caught on some unseen cord, and the next instant a tree beside the road fell heavily down, breaking both the harness and the troll’s back. Then there was a great deal of running to and fro and shouting, and finally a screen of orc-scouts was set to move before the main body of the army, which was still pouring over the walls with unabated speed.

Mablung and Damrod had saved their best trap for the last. The scouts found more spikes and several were crushed by the falling roof of a house, but the main army escaped mostly scatheless until they were nearer to the city. Then Mablung drew out an arrow dipped in pitch, and waited until a certain field was full of orcs, and a line of trolls carrying the beams of a great siege-engine had joined them. Then he set the arrow-point aflame and send it speeding towards a thatched roof, well anointed with oil, which awaited only a spark to go up and set a trail of oiled rags in flames as well.

The fire caught and kindled in the thatch, and followed the oil across the ground with startling swiftness. The stubble and dry grass caught as well, and soon several acres were alight and burning merrily. The trolls dropped their beams in pain and surprise and lumbered towards the edges of the field as quickly as they could manage. Creatures of stone themselves, they could not be seriously harmed by the fire, but the seasoned wood which they had borne could, and so could the orcs that accompanied them. One, at least, of the siege engines would not reach the walls of Minas Tirith, and neither would the three companies of orcs that had surrounded it.

Cunning as they were, however, the traps could neither do great damage nor hinder the enemy for long, any more than dams of leaves can hinder an onrushing stream. The dark flood was never checked for more than a few minutes, even by the fire, and it rose steadily until all the land between the Pelennor wall and the city was filled with teeming shapes. Soon tents were rising among the fields like a foul fungus, trenches full of fire and walls of earth were beginning to rise out of the ground, and siege engines were beginning to take shape out of the many beams and ropes borne in by the orcs. It seemed that the lessons taught by the Rangers’ traps had been well learned, for tents and trenches and engines were all beyond the reach of bowshot from the walls, and so there was naught that the watchers could do to hinder them. 

Things had been going on thus for some time when greater shapes appeared beyond the line of the wall — almost the size of siege engines, but moving on four legs. _Mûmakil,_ Boromir said under his breath from where he stood beside Captain Mallor, watching as the men laboured on one of the great machines on the wall, readying it to turn inwards and fire upon the city should it be needed, and the whisper ran along the wall until it reached Maedhros, who stood above the gate, watching the field with an impassive gaze, and ever and anon directing one of the archers who stood near to fire at some foolish orc that his keen gaze had singled out as being near enough to be struck by an arrow.

"So these are the Enemy’s new monsters," he said softly, but not so softly that the men around him could not hear. "Unless they are more than they appear to be, I do not think much of them."

There was no laughter among the men about him — not under that shadow — but the heaviness of the air seemed to lighten a little. Then a shrill cry from the clouds above split the air like a blade, and all around him men blanched and shivered. Five more cries followed, joining together into a harmony of cold and fear, and Maedhros, the only one who dared look upwards, saw six black shapes hovering far over the city, out of range of bowshot. He glanced swiftly up and down the walls, and saw that some of the fainter hearts were already cowering down against the battlements, helmets wrenched off that they could better cover their ears. Even the boldest stood stiffly and clenched their hands on their weapons. If the very appearance of the Ulairi brought such fear, it would not be long before resistance was utterly beaten down, unless something was done. Arrows were no good — Celegorm or Ambarussa might have made the shot, or even some of the Men he had known, but there were no such bowmen here now — but words might be made to serve, and cold was something he knew well how to deal with.

_"Heca, caurehalar!"_ he roared, in a voice that would have cut even through the clamour of battle, and let the fire of his wrath burn high against the chill darkness of fear that had settled upon the men around him. 

In the silence that had fallen after the voices of the Ulairi, his shout could be heard echoing down from the flanks of Mindolluin. All about him, men started as though waked from a dream and turned their faces towards him, amazement writ large in their eyes. _"Lá helcelda umë apar me polë!"_

The Ulairi screamed again in defiance of his words, but though the men flinched, this time they held steady. The fearful rose to their feet once more and searched for their helms, or turned to stare at Maedhros. He did not rein in his fire, as he would ordinarily have done when men began to gaze at him with mingled awe and fear, but let it go on burning bright with the joy of driving back the Nazgûl. Let the men know that he was worth fearing — and that he fought with them. 

Pippin and his company had reached the first circle and were well on their way to their posts, when a horrible noise that Pippin wished he did not recognise clove the air and his ears with agony. _Black Riders,_ he thought desperately. _Black Riders of the air!_ He and Penlod and several others had halted and covered their ears when the horrible sound began, and now the whole company had jostled to a halt, ranks broken. Far, far up, beyond the range of mortal hearing, the cries wailed on, and yet somehow they still shook Pippin’s bones even though he could no longer hear them. Then the voices began to descend until he could hear them again, and the sudden resumption of torment he had not known was gone was all but unbearable. He was shouting, and could see from the faces around him that several of the others were too, but he could not hear anything save the wailing voices of the Nazgûl. _I must keep going,_ he thought furiously. _I must. Frodo’s out there._ One foot went in front of another, and it took all his will to pull his mind away from the fear and the dark and the _cold_ and the pain, and bid his feet carry him forward. Then another step, and another, and he was back up to his place in the ranks again.

Then there was a boom like thunder in the mountains, and the voices of the Black Riders stopped. Pippin did not know the words in that roaring shout, but he did know the voice that shouted, and he knew, too, the furnace-heat that washed over him like a wave and burned away the dark fog of fear that had blurred his mind. _Maedhros,_ he thought in awe, and then realised that he had said it aloud when the men around him repeated, softly, "Lord Maedhros," as though the very name would drive back the fear. 

Their whispers crescendoed to shouts of "Lord Maedhros for Gondor!" as they marched forward again towards their post on the wall, and even stern Eärendur took up the cry. 

_Well,_ thought Pippin as he marched, _I suppose this is what he meant when he said he had hope for the war even apart from Frodo! A few more tricks like that, and perhaps we shan’t even need to fight!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya translations:  
"Heca, caurehalar!" = "Begone, shadows of fear!"  
"Lá helcelda umë apar me polë!" = "Your cold cannot touch us!"


	30. The Battle of the Pelennor Fields: Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle for Gondor continues. Boromir directs the siege. Maedhros finally gets his chance at some orcs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much like the last chapter, I originally thought this would finish off the battle, but nope, it's going to need at least one more part. Maybe two.

When the swelling waves of the enemy had filled every inch of the fields that was out of bowshot of the city, the assault began, as Boromir had known it would. The outer wall of Minas Tirith was black stone, _built ere the craft of Numenor faded in exile, unbreachable save by some convulsion of the earth upon which it stood,_ and so the enemy did not waste time with hopeless bombardments of the wall itself. Instead, the great engines flung their stones _marvellously high,_ arcing over the defenders’ heads and crashing into the houses and shops of the first level. _It is well that all the folk of the first circles have gone,_ he thought grimly. The men on the wall did not so much as shift as the stones came whistling overhead. This was not the true test of their defences. Not yet. 

The Nazgûl had been mercifully absent since whatever Maedhros had done after their first appearance — Boromir could still feel the warmth that had driven the cold of the Ringwraiths from his bones, even though he had been half-way around the city wall from the gate when it happened — but there was enough trouble without them. Behind the flying stones, mûmakil were driven forward in a great line, orcs with ladders and trolls pulling siege-towers advancing in their wake. Now there was work for the archers of Gondor, who loosed their arrows as soon as their foes were in range, felling many in the first rank, but there was more work than there were archers, and new orcs stepped up to take their place. 

He caught a flash of light out of the corner of his eye, and then there was a shout of "Fire!" from within the city. Turning to see what was the matter, he saw that some of the enemy’s missiles had, _by some unknown art,_ burst into flame as they flew overhead. Most of the first circle was stone, but there was wood enough to burn, and the flames clung to all that they touched. "Captain Mallor!" he shouted into the night. 

"Here, General!"

"Pull men from the second circle watches and set them to putting out those fires before our retreat is cut off!"

"Yes sir."

"And send men to bring up the pitch and oil. I would not have our guests miss getting a taste of their own medicine when they reach the walls."

"Yes sir."

Then, trusting in Mallor to see to his commands, he turned his attention back to the mûmakil and the siege towers. Arrows now flew to and fro between besiegers and besieged in great numbers. The orcs were poor shots, but their numbers nearly made up for it, and the Haradrim, for all that they loosed their arrows from the swaying backs of the great beasts, were not. Despite the protection of armour and battlements, more than one soldier of Gondor had fallen, struck in the joints of the armour. Some rose again, and the healers seized upon them. Some did not. Up and down the wall Boromir strode, directing the archers and lending a hand where it was needed, sometimes to help a wounded man down from the wall, sometimes to load stone into one of the great engines on the wall, sometimes to drag a barrel of oil into position.

The engineers of Gondor were cautious with their shots, for they had only so much stone, but they saw to it that every stone found a mark. Some felled mûmakil, which arrows did not hinder. Some sent siege-towers flying apart in splinters. One fortunate shot struck an enemy catapult and shattered its throwing arm. Boromir joined with his men in cheering as the great splintered beam and all its load of stone fell back and crushed the orcs surrounding it. A moment later, a flicker of movement coming from above and behind hime caught his eye, and reflex sent him diving to the ground, taking the two men nearest along with him. A horribly familiar scream pierced through his ears like a dagger-thrust, and one of the unfortunate crew of the catapult was hurled over the wall by the impact of the stinking wings of the great beast that the Nazgûl rode. 

Before Boromir had gathered himself enough to order the archers to fire, the creature had swept out of bowshot along the ground, and then shot up into the clouds again with a triumphant shriek. "Watch the sky!" Boromir shouted to the archers as he strode towards the gate.

Maedhros still stood over the gate like a statue, occasionally giving some direction to the archers who surrounded him, but Boromir noticed that the men around him had drawn back, until the nearest were some ten feet from him. As he approached, Boromir knew why: he felt as though he were walking into the mouth of a furnace. Fiery light danced over Maedhros’ armour and gilded the ends of his flame-red hair and flickered along the edge of his drawn sword. He either did not hear or did not heed Boromir’s approach; he was looking intently at a point somewhere along the walls. Boromir came to a halt a little closer than the nearest men, shielding his face from the nigh-unbearable heat, and said, "The Nazgûl have learnt a new trick. Is there aught you can do?"

Maedhros turned towards him then, and Boromir saw that the light of his eyes was almost too bright to bear and that the veins of his face seemed to be picked out in glowing light. Even when Maedhros uncloaked his power before Denethor, he had not seen this. The thought that Maedhros had been holding back his power even then was both terrifying and heartening. _Thank the Valar that he is on our side,_ Boromir thought.

"I could burn their miserable ring-bound corpses out of the sky from where I stand now," Maedhros answered with a sneer, "but I could not do it without burning also those who stood by me. Were I to stoke the flames any higher, as I must needs do if I am to do any harm to the Nazgûl, you would be hurt or perhaps slain, and so would many others. I can hold back the fear they set in mens’ hearts and make it unpleasant for them to linger too long near the city, but I can do no more without risking hurt to you."

Boromir sighed, then turned to another thought. "What was it that you were watching when I came?"

"That," Maedhros said, pointing with his handless arm towards one of the places where the orcs had beaten down the Pelennor wall.

Boromir looked in the direction in which he pointed, but saw nothing. "What is there?"

"A ram, on the shores of Anduin. It must be of great weight, for the orcs are rebuilding the bridge of Osgiliath before it. It seems that they dare not attempt the crossing with a boat. It will be some time ere they have finished, and that is well for us. When it reaches the city, the gates will fall."

"Do we still have three days?"

"It moves slowly, and the orcs must clear the way before it after the bridge is built, and it will take at least a day, perhaps two for that to be strong enough to bear it. It will be another day, I deem, after it crosses the river, before it reaches the gate."

"Then we have two days at the least. That will be enough. I must go and see to the rest of the wall. Will you stay here?"

"I will. This is the weakest point in all the wall, and it is here that the assault will be hardest. Here I will stay."

"Good."

Pippin had no idea what time it was when he fell back into his bed, for, as Beregond had put it, all times were alike now. He had stood on the wall with the rest of his company till his feet ached, watching the archers exchange arrows as the siege engines crawled closer and stones flew overhead. The parapet protected them from most of the arrows of the enemy, and their armor deflected most of the arrows that made it over the wall, but there had been more than one close shave for all that. Occasionally Boromir would stride by their position and speak a few words of encouragement, or direct the archers where their arrows would be much use. Several times they had had to hurl themselves flat to avoid flying stones, and once because the Nazgûl had swept down upon the wall where they were stationed, though the wraiths seemed either unable or unwilling to strike at the walls too often, and the cold they brought with them was always burned away soon after by Maedhros’ white-hot fire. 

After they left the walls, they had been brought water and food, and a healer in white robes had come and bandaged such of the company as had been in any way wounded, though fortunately none had been seriously hurt. For the first time in his life Pippin could not remember what he had eaten at a meal, for he and all the company had been in great haste to finish their meal and return to the fight, for all that they were glad of the rest. When they had returned to duty, they had been set to fighting fires in the city. Pippin had not known that there were so many things that could burn in a city that had seemed to be made wholly of stone, and his arms ached from beating at flames and hefting buckets. In the city proper, they had had more to fear from both arrows and stone-cast. Pippin had gotten some cuts from flying shards of stone, but none that were serious enough to hinder him in his work, and he had gone on carrying buckets of water to and fro. Their work in the city had seemed even more interminable than the time spent standing on the walls, but it had ended at last. Ash-covered, scorched, weary, and aching, but as yet without serious wounds, they returned to the guardhouse to sleep. "What day is it, Captain?" Pippin asked of Eärendur as they stiffly doffed their armour.

"Evening of the day upon which you woke, Peregrin, and still the first day of the siege," Eärendur replied.

Pippin felt at once as though he had just tumbled out of the cocoon of sheets he had made for himself that morning and as though it had been weeks since he had so much as seen a bed. He said nothing, but Eärendur answered his thought, and said, "It is always so in battles. While they last, nothing lasts so long. Once they are over, nothing is so short."

"How long do you think this one will go on?"

"I cannot say, but sieges such as this, where the besieged have had time to prepare, are as like as not to last for months."

"I don’t think I can do this for months," Pippin said wearily.

Eärendur looked thoughtfully at him. "When first I saw your stature, Peregrin son of Paladin, I would have thought you could not do it at all. I thought you an errand boy that Lord Boromir had put in the Guard to learn a little of discipline. But you have acquitted yourself in this battle as a guard of the Citadel should. No man knows what he can do in the last need until that need has been reached, and then he often finds that he can do far more than he thought."

Pippin thought of all the things he had done since leaving the Shire that he would never in his wildest dreams of adventure have imagined himself doing — more than that, would have laughed in the face of anyone who told him that he would do — and said quietly, "I hope it does not come to the last need."

"So do we all," Eärendur replied. "But if it does, there is not a man — or halfling — in this company whom I do not trust to do his duty to the end, if need be."

"I’ll do my best," was all Pippin could say in answer to that.

He was too weary to think too much on their words, however, and was asleep almost before he fell into bed.

Maedhros clenched his hand on his sword-hilt as the Nazgûl dove for the walls again, well away from where he stood over the gate. He could not bid his archers fire on them for fear of hitting their own, and neither could he send his own fire after them for the same reason. _"You were ever a coward, Thauron,"_ he snarled softly in Quenya. _"It seems your servants are the same. But neither they nor you can escape me forever, and I can afford to wait, as well you know."_

He turned his gaze back to the deeper shadow in the darkness that marked the ram. The bridge of Osgiliath was rising swiftly from the waters of Anduin once more under the labouring hands of many thousands of orcs, and it would likely be finished before the day was out. Already Boromir had set men to work building barricades in a great semi-circle around the gate in the first level, lest it be breached. That would happen, he was certain, and it was well to be prepared, but at the moment they had a more pressing problem, in the form of the siege engines which had been moving slowly and ponderously towards the wall for some time, and were now nearly upon them. 

The mûmakil were little good save as high places for archers to shoot from: tall as they were, their backs were not near enough to the top of the walls for any to attempt to climb from them, and so none of the defenders had spent overmuch time on them. Archers and engineers alike sent their arrows and stones hurtling towards the great wheeled towers which the orcs had spent much of the morning assembling, breaking and delaying all that they could. It was in large part because of this that no towers had yet reached the city, for as soon as one came in bowshot, any orc or troll that was foolish enough to attempt to drag it forward from the front was stuck full of arrows from the wall, if the tower was not simply shattered by stone-cast. Now, however, they were dealing not with a handful of towers that happened to have been erected more swiftly than the others, but with a solid line, approaching the City steadily, driven forward by trolls who had at last learnt to shelter behind the engines they moved.

Though Maedhros had in large part directed the delaying action, a part of him was eager for the towers to arrive. He was weary of inaction, and his sword-hand itched for battle. It had been a day and a night since first he took up his place over the great gates of the city, though he guessed that few others were able to see the all-but-invisible shifts in light that told him of the sun’s rising and setting, and in all that time he had been unable to touch the enemy. He knew that by hindering the Nazgûl he did more for the defence than any archer, and he had patience enough to wait out a hundred sieges, but he would be grateful for the chance to strike a proper blow at the orcs.

He did not have to wait long. The first of the siege-towers had now come far enough forward that the trebuchets on the walls could no longer aim at it, and it was bearing towards the gate. It was the only weak point in all that impregnable wall, and Thauron’s general knew it. Maedhros guessed that he would strike here first and hardest, giving the gate’s defenders no time to breathe until the ram came up. He shifted his grip on the long sword that Curufin had forged for him, feeling the perfect balance of the blade, and settled into readiness. 

The blade’s smith, meanwhile, had long since grown impatient with his confinement to the Houses of Healing. His shoulder was far from healed, but it no longer bound him to his bed. With a little caution, he could walk or run. And, thanks to Maedhros’ insistence in the First Age, he was nearly as skilled with his left hand as with his right. He judged his moment carefully, waiting until the more experienced among the healers had gone out to minister to those hurt in the battle, then carefully unfastened the sling and stepped out of his room. As he had expected, the halls were mostly empty for the moment. None halted him until he had almost reached the front entrance, and then he was accosted by a rather talkative matron who made a determined attempt at shooing him back to his bed, amid many mutterings about "young men with no regard for their health" and "soldiers undoing ten days of healers’ work in five minutes". 

Rather than attempt to argue his way past her — he suspected that the lady, whom one of the younger healers had named Ioreth, was quite immune to both argument and charms — he feigned compliance, allowed her to replace the sling with a show of penitence, and waited for ten minutes after she had shut the door after herself before attempting work the knots loose again. They were well tied, and he mentally nodded his respect to her while he carefully shifted the sling until he could reach and untie the knots one-handed. Then he went to the window and looked out. He was on the first floor, and his window overlooked a garden. In the sunlight, it had been a very fair place, even he had had to admit. Men, it seemed, could both build and grow beauty when they had the mind to. Now, it was black as pitch, and the trees were only visible as darker shadows against the greyness of the wall and sky. He was still wearing his own clothes, mended, for the healers had none to fit him, and clad in green and brown as he was, it would be no difficulty to hide among the trees in this night, even had any thought to look after him there.

Perhaps five minutes later, he was standing outside the armoury of the fifth level guards, towering over the young lieutenant who seemed to be in charge of it. "I am the brother of the Lord Maedhros," he said sternly, but not sharply. "I have need of armour and a sword."

The lieutenant saluted him and stepped aside without protest. It took him some time to find armour and a sword which came near to fitting him — his own sword had been taken by the healers, and he suspected that Maedhros was keeping it — and longer to strap on the armour with only one hand, but he was patient, and it was not overly long before he strode out of the armoury and towards the first circle of the City. None questioned him.

He found the first circle in what looked at first like chaos, but then resolved itself upon closer inspection into more or less organised groups of men putting out fires and dodging the incoming boulders from the enemy’s catapults. He did not stay to aid them, however, for he could hear the shouting from the wall, together with the clash of steel and the occasional cry from the Nazgûl, though it seemed that Maedhros had taken measures to ensure that they did not come too often or linger too long. 

The fire-fighters seemed to have the situation fairly well under control, and in any case he would be of little use to them with his right arm wounded. He strode on towards the outer wall. 

The first siege-tower reached the wall just to the left of the gate, and its ramp landed on the black battlements with an echoing _clang._ The first rank of orcs that sprang up the ramp to the wall were dead by the time they reached it, struck by arrows. The few of the second rank that did not meet the same fate fell squarely upon the spear-points of the defenders. The third was met by Maedhros. Orcs, like the Nazgûl, shrank away from the furnace-heat of the air about him, but he was swifter than they, and there was no clear space upon the wall where they could flee from him. Some, in a vain attempt to escape him, lost their footing and fell backwards into the city. But already another rank was pouring up from the belly of the siege-tower, and another, and another, and all along the walls other towers had cast down their ramps, and their cargoes of orcs were hurling themselves at the defenders, utterly disregarding their casualties. 

The Nazgûl screamed and dove down towards the walls, and Maedhros realised that he had drawn his fire back in in order to fight the closer to the men around him as soldiers blanched and flinched. He let it loose again and scorched the nearest rank of orcs, but the Nazgûl did not break off their approach, and several of the men nearest him winced and covered their faces. He clenched his jaw and reined in the flames once more, though not so far that the Nazgûl were left utterly unchecked, and turned his attention to the nearest siege tower. If they did not find a way of forcing the towers back, sooner or later every orc and Man and troll that stood on the field below would pour into the City. Even the Nazgûl took second place to that threat. "The ramp!" he shouted to the men around him. "Send the oil down the ramp, and then fire after!"

A cauldron of boiling oil heaved at the orcs knocked several right off the parapet, and scalded nearly all of those that had lined up on the ramp. Maedhros tucked his sword under his right arm, seized a torch, and threw it after the oil. Soon all the top of the siege engine was merrily ablaze, and the ramp was crumbling. "Well done," Maedhros called, and was answered by cheering.

The orcs who remained on his section of the wall were thoroughly disheartened by their companions’ fall, and it was clear that the men needed no help dealing with them. He returned his sword to his left hand and strode on down the wall, looking for another tower that seemed to be causing trouble.

Perhaps a quarter of a mile away, Boromir was doing much the same thing. He had felt the withdrawal of Maedhros’ protective warmth, though it was not wholly gone, and wondered what had happened, but there was no time to worry about it. A barrel of hot pitch followed by a well-aimed fire arrow had already ridded them of one siege-tower. Now he was working beside a unit of Captain Mallor’s men to roll a great stone, taken from the store kept for the trebuchets, down on their opponents’ heads. They had just halted for a moment’s rest, and he glanced over his shoulder to see if the fires in the City were beginning to burn out of control. Seeing that matters seemed no worse than they had been, he turned his attention back to the wall. Setting his shoulder against the boulder once more, he called out, "Heave now!"

One mighty shove brought the stone up to the parapet, as the men around them fought to keep a clear road. Another, and it was up on the parapet teetering on the brink of the long fall below. Boromir shoved it over, and watched as orcs scattered like nine-pins. For a moment, the ramp was clear. He and the company that had gathered about him immediately set to wrenching it free of the engine to which it was attached and hurling it to the field below before the orcs recovered their courage. A few arrows whistled by their heads, but the archers beside them soon put a stop to that, and in a minute or so, down fell the ramp with a crash, and the orcs on the siege-tower below were left to make futile jumps for the battlements. It would not be long before they brought up or built ladders, Boromir knew, but for a moment there was respite here. _One down, fifty to go,_ he thought grimly, rolling his shoulders and striding off to seek out the next place where his help was needed.

It was some time later that Pippin stood on the wall beside Penlod once more, watching up and down the wall as orcs surged forward like waves of the sea and were forced back again and again. All about them those who had bows — no longer only the archers, for some had picked up bows abandoned by the dead or wounded, like Penlod, who had equipped himself with a short cavalry bow that he had gotten from heaven knew where — fired alternately at the orcs on the wall and the orcs below. Only once had orcs come near enough for them to see hand-to-hand fighting, though there was a siege-tower coming their way, _which is true of just about every spot on this wall right now,_ Pippin thought wryly, watching the great black shape come lumberingly closer. It was near enough now for them to exchange arrows with the orcs who stood massed on the top of the tower, ready to charge across as soon as the ramp fell. Even over the tumult of battle below, Pippin could hear the _hiss-thunks_ as arrows flew through the air to glance off stone or steel, or to embed themselves in wood or flesh. 

When there was one _thunk_ that sounded a little closer to him than the others, he did not pay too much attention to it amid all the shouts and thudding that echoed down the wall. Then Penlod’s bow slipped from his hand, even as its wielder fell to his knees, then to the ground. Pippin turned towards him, confused, and saw that an arrow had buried itself in his throat. 

For a moment, everything seemed to stop and go silent, as Pippin stared into Penlod’s brown eyes, which were looking at him with an expression he could not read. Then Penlod blinked once, and gave a sort of shudder, and lay still. 

The noise of battle came roaring back in even louder than before, and Pippin seemed to be able to hear all of it, even his own breathing, all separately. Still he did not move. Still he met Penlod’s unmoving eyes. Somehow, he felt, if he did not move, it would not have happened. Penlod would stand up again and keep firing at the orcs on the siege-tower as though nothing had happened, if only Pippin did not move, did not look away.

A firm hand descended on his shoulder. He flinched, and the moment broke. Penlod lay before him, dead. He looked up to meet Eärendur’s gaze. "Fight now," the captain said. "Later will be time to mourn."

Pippin nodded jerkily, and reached down to pick up the short bow and quiver. He wondered if Penlod had picked them up from beside a dead man too. The quiver was still half full of arrows. Pippin couldn’t see over the parapet, but he could just aim through the arrow slits if he was careful. He did his best to place his hands and feet the way he’d seen the other archers do. Then he drew the arrow back to his ear, aimed, and loosed.

He did not stop to see if he had struck his orc, but nocked another arrow and fired, more smoothly than before. Someone, perhaps Rodnor, said from behind him, "Well shot, Peregrin." 

Pippin went on steadily nocking, aiming, and loosing arrows. The Enemy’s orcs had killed Penlod. They might kill him. That did not matter. All that mattered was that he keep loosing his arrows until they were spent. He knew in a distant way that he was angry, but that did not matter either. His vision and his mind both seemed to have narrowed to the bow in his hands and the orcs beyond the wall. For now there was no room for anything else.

Captain Mallor of the Third Circle leaned wearily on his spear and looked across the great half-circle of the outer wall, and wondered how this would all end, and when he had last slept. He had fought orcs, and doused fires, and eaten and slept, and now he fought again, still under the accursed darkness that drove away all sense of time, hoping that Maedhros the One-Handed would shout loudly enough to drive the Nazgûl away. There was a small part of him that thought this was all a dream, that he would wake up in bed next to Erinti and find that Lord Denethor was still alive and the long siege still dragging on. 

But Erinti had taken Lotesse and young Amillo out through Rath Dínen hours — no, days, it must have been at least a day — ago, with all the other folk of the City who were too young to fight. Had it been up to her, he was certain she would have stayed to help the healers, but his daughter was just now twelve, and his son was only four, and neither of them would risk their children in a siege.

Mallor shook his head to banish the fog of exhaustion and endless battle, and saw that yet another siege tower was being shoved forward, as countless orcs cleared away the burning fragments of the last one that had been foolish enough to make for his sector of the wall. He tried to wipe the sweat from his palms on his trousers and found that he was wearing armour, so he adjusted his grip on his spear instead. "Siege tower!" he called out hoarsely. "Ready the pitch!"

"This is our last barrel, sir," a voice that he thought belonged to Rodnor said out of the chaos.

Mallor could have sworn that they had not used half of their stock yet, but time passed strangely in battle. "Ready it anyway," he called back.

_Keep moving, Erinti,_ he thought. _We will see that you are not followed. As long as that mad Noldo can hold the wraiths away,_ he added, almost whimsically.

Then he blinked, because, as though his thought had summoned him, there stood a tall Elf, wearing armour of Gondor, with a sword in his hand. His hair was black as midnight, Mallor noticed belatedly, so he could not be Maedhros, and he had two hands besides, though one was tucked into his belt as though he were wounded. He met Mallor’s eyes, and smiled. "Would you like a hand?" he called up, in a voice as bright as the sun on a knife-edge.

_I must be_ weary beyond words _if I am thinking things like that,_ Mallor thought, _and it’s only the second day of battle._ Aloud, he said, "We have a siege engine coming in. Would you care for a share of the orcs?"

The Elf’s smile broadened into a grin, and Mallor nearly took a step backwards at the sheer predatory glee of the expression. _Thank the Valar this one is on our side,_ he thought, as the Elf said, "Oh, please," and began climbing the stairs to the wall, three at a time.

Once he had gained the top, he turned to Mallor, and said, "I believe I have not had the pleasure of making your acquaintance."

"Captain Mallor of the Third Circle." Mallor held out his hand.

"Curufinwë Atarinkë Fëanorion," said the Elf, grasping Mallor’s right hand with his left. "But if we are to be brothers-in-arms, you should call me Curufin."

Mallor resolutely did not think of old, half-remembered legends of Curufin the Cruel, or of the predatory smile. "Curufin, then," he said. "It’s good to have you."

The smile he received for that was almost not alarming at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Captain Mallor has taught me never to assume that any character is mere background colour that will never actually show up in the story. He wasn't even supposed to have a speaking part, but nope, he popped into my brain and wanted to talk, so here you go.


	31. A Knife in the Dark, And What Happened After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Under the shadow of Erebor, Caranthir and Glóin set themselves to the work of diplomacy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I'm late again, sorry. But I'm still in the right week!
> 
> Credit to Mr_Bultitude for beta reading (that goes retroactively for the last several chapters too).

Amras leaned against a twisted oak-tree, looking remarkably cheerful, and therefore remarkably out of place in his surroundings, which were dank, damp, and generally dispirited looking, especially now that night had fallen. He had just loosed his last arrow at a fleeing orc, and was now watching as the elves of Mirkwood set zealously to work dismantling all of Dol Guldor that they could reach. Their wrath at Thauron burned hot, and they were in no humour to wait for the dawn. He would have liked to join them, but the healers had somehow got round Grimbeorn, and the towering Man had threatened to sit on Amras, should he do anything during this battle other than shoot at orcs from a distance. Captain Lalven was in much the same position, and the two of them had spent much of the journey to Dol Guldor complaining together, with the result that their previous animosity had all but disappeared. Amras was now privately keeping count of his kills under his breath, should Lalven wish to compare after the battle, and was fairly sure that the captain was doing the same. He had charitably started his count only at the beginning of the battle at Dol Guldor, since Lalven had been at an unfair disadvantage in the last battle after the Nazgûl landed on him. As he shouldered his bow and listened to the crash of stone from ahead, his mind drifted to the _palantír_ in a pouch on his belt, and he wished that he had some news urgent enough to excuse calling one of his brothers. 

Had he looked towards the nearest of his brothers, he would have seen a tent under the shadow of Erebor, where the forms of Caranthir and Glóin lay in what appeared to be peaceful sleep. He would not have seen — the view of a _palantír_ can be detailed or wide, but not easily both — the shadow that fell outside the tent. Nor would he have heard the soft footfalls, all but inaudible to human ears, which accompanied it, for _palantíri_ convey only the thoughts of their wielders, not the sounds of the world. But, despite that, he would have known that Caranthir, at least, was not truly asleep.

As a matter of fact, neither was Glóin. It had not needed Caranthir’s soft murmur of _"Watch your back"_ in Khûzdul to warn him to keep half an eye open that night. Glóin was not born yesterday, and he knew a wily old fox when he saw one. He doubted that the general of the Easterling host would be fool enough to challenge his unexpected guest openly after such a display of prowess as he had given, but only a fool would think that that meant he had accepted the not only the presence, but the command, of one who styled himself a myth, and had abruptly claimed the fealty of an army by right of an oath sworn four thousand years ago.

The simplest way to rid oneself of such annoyances, if one was not overly scrupulous, was a swift knife-thrust, delivered by a messenger whom one could conceivably claim had been acting on his own initiative, should he fail. Glóin and Caranthir both knew this well, and so now they lay on rich pallets of furs on either side of the door of the tent, weapons within comfortable reach, feigning sleep and wondering when the attack would come. Not if, for even in the case that Khador did not order an attempt on their lives, their entrance into the camp had been far from subtle, and Caranthir’s manner of claiming the army’s allegiance had been an open threat. There were certain to be those who were less than pleased with him, and, by extension, with Glóin.

Caranthir, who had the keen ears of his kind, was the first to hear the soft shifting of cloth and leather and earth that denoted a well-trained Man attempting to go unnoticed. He stiffened almost imperceptibly, and began to inch his hand towards the long knife that lay carefully concealed amongst the furs.

Glóin, from where he lay on the other side of the tent, saw the shape of Caranthir’s shoulders, silhouetted against the soft moonlight, change ever so slightly. His axe lay beside his pallet, just beyond his fingers, as though his sleeping hand had loosed its grip upon the haft. Now he rolled a little forward, as though in his sleep, so that his hand rested over the leather-wrapped grip, and waited.

When the moment came, it was surprisingly anticlimactic. A shadow, hardly visible in the dimness, fell over the mouth of the tent. There was a soft scrape of cloth on cloth, a hiss of drawn steel, and a sudden, choked-off gurgling sound. Glóin sprang to his feet, axe in hand, in time to watch the assassin fall to the ground with a soft thump. Caranthir, a black shape against the soft light that filtered through the tent-wall, stood over the body of his foe, and the moonlight glanced silver off of the sheen of deep red that coated his keen blade. Glóin met the Elf’s gleaming eyes, and said mildly, "Keep it quiet, would you? I’m trying to sleep here."

Caranthir laughed softly, wiped his blade, and, with a single brisk heave, sent the body of the unfortunate assassin tumbling out through the door of the tent, then stepped out to drag the body out of clear view. "Let he who robbed us of slumber lie there to guard the door until morning," he said gruffly. 

"Think we can risk sleeping?" Glóin asked, turning back to his bedroll.

"Yes. If the first assassin fails, we are warned. He will not send a second so soon. But sleep lightly all the same."

Glóin snorted in agreement as he settled back down amongst the furs, axe still in his hand. 

Caranthir and Glóin were scrupulously punctual to their appointment with Lord Khador the next morning. The general’s face was still unreadable, though Glóin did not think that he entirely imagined the brief flicker in the depths of his dark eyes when he first noticed their presence. It was not surprise, he thought, but it might be disappointment. 

Caranthir broke the silence by saying calmly, still in the tongue of the Easterlings, _"If you have misplaced one of your men, you will find what is left of him outside my tent, where he made his attempt on my life. I trust you knew nothing of his intent."_

Khador’s eyes widened in apparent surprise. _"My deepest apologies, my lord,"_ he said in tones of measured remorse. _"He acted without either my permission or my desire. His punishment is just. I shall speak to my men to make clear my utter allegiance to your lordship."_

_"Well spoken, and like a faithful man,"_ Caranthir replied. _"I have no doubt that your actions shall live up to your speech."_

_"What actions would my lord have me take to prove my faithfulness to his commands?"_

_"I know that my presence here is not what you expected."_

_"It is an honour nevertheless."_

_"But I know also that an unexpected guest should not overstay his welcome. Therefore, only one action do I bid you take: go hence in peace. Return to the land of your people. Bear no more war to these western lands."_

Khador looked surprised for the second time, and Glóin suspected this time was genuine, but he nevertheless retained his composure. _"As my lord wishes,"_ he said in tones which carried a faint air of relief. _"Our army will depart in a day’s time."_

_"I will see you off, and then I have business with Thauron. Should you have any doubt as to who will prevail in the coming war…"_

_"I have business in the north of my land which will occupy my attention for some time, my lord."_

_"That is well."_

Standing outside the tent where he and Glóin had spent the night, as all about them men went to and fro, hastily breaking camp, Caranthir looked down at the set faces of Brókha and some dozen others, who stood before him, armed and equipped as though for a long journey. A little way away, two more held the reins of a number of horses, light-boned and elegant creatures which shifted from hoof to hoof as though impatient to set out. _"What is this?"_ he asked, not unkindly.

Brókha shifted his feat in a motion much like that of the nervous horses before he spoke. _"My lord, you claimed the fealty of our people,"_ he said quietly, _"but you have asked nothing of that fealty save our withdrawal from this war."_

_"Your oath of fealty is an ancient one. It was sworn and broken by the fathers of your fathers. I would not ask more of it that your folk are willing to give."_

_"Lord Khador,"_ the boy — Caranthir guessed that he was young even for a mortal — went on with only the slightest quaver in his voice, _"is not willing to give more than this, certainly. Perhaps the most of our people are not. But I and my comrades are. We would fulfil the oath our fathers swore and reclaim the honour our people lost in the breaking. You go to war. Let us go with you."_

_"You will go to a land far from your people if you do this,"_ Caranthir said warningly. _"You may die there. And your people may not wish to receive you back if you live."_

Brókha lifted his head defiantly. _"We know,"_ he answered. _"But we know, now also that our people lost their honour many ages ago when they betrayed you. We would fight beside you to reclaim it."_

_"Then I will accept your oaths,"_ Caranthir said in reply. _"I will be true lord to you as you are true liege to me."_

_"That is all we ask."_

Captain Lâkhad rounded the corner and scowled at the group in surprise. _"Brókha, what is this?"_ he asked sharply.

Brókha stiffened at his voice, and turned slowly to face him. Caranthir set a hand briefly on his shoulder to steady him, and prepared to speak for him, but the boy found his voice first, and said, _"Our liegelord goes into battle. We follow him."_

Lâkhad looked at Brókha with a considering gaze, then turned it to Caranthir. Though his face remained impassive, it seemed that resentment, respect and curiosity each in turn flickered in his eyes. Abruptly, he straightened to something nearing attention, eyes unreadable once more, and said, _"Then, my lord, I hope there is room for one more in your company."_

Caranthir, in turn, gave the captain an assessing gaze. _"There is always room for another good man. There is no room for betrayal."_

Lâkhad’s face did not change at the warning, but there was the barest trace of resentment in his voice when he said, _"When I give my word, my liege, I keep it."_

_"Then we will agree well together. We leave as soon as you are prepared."_

Lâkhad saluted, turned on his heel, and marched away. Caranthir took the minutes during which he was gone to draw out his _palantír._ Brókha and his company looked at him in surprise and perhaps a little fear as colours swirled in its depths. When Lâkhad returned with his horse saddled and laden, Caranthir said, _"My brother awaits us on the borders of Mirkwood. It will not be more than a day’s ride out of our way."_

_"We will bring a mount for him,"_ one of the youths who held the horses spoke up.

_"That is well. Ride on then!"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter this week, but we needed to get back to Erebor and see all the stuff that was going on there! Next week, we return to Mordor.


	32. Out of Doubt, Out of Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Celegorm searches for Frodo and Sam and deals with the problems created by his presence in Mordor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before reading this chapter, I recommend that you go back and reread Chapter 27, as I have made some important changes to it which affect what happens here.

Intent as he was on the trail of the orcs, and worried as he was by the sounds of battle that his keen ears had begun to detect issuing from the tower, Celegorm nevertheless kept half an eye out for any other unpleasant surprises that might be waiting for him in the pass. Thauron had always loved to set cruel and subtle traps for his foes who were bold enough to trespass on his domains. He was rather surprised when he reached the foot of the Tower of Cirith Ungol unmolested, though he supposed that Shelob had been quite enough of an unpleasant surprise for most people. He was not at all surprised to feel a will of malice guarding the gates of the tower — indeed, once again, he would have expected something more — but now that the need for concealment was past, they could not hinder him.

He felt the pressure on forehead and breast, as though unseen hands were attempting to force him backwards, but as he loosened the hold he kept on the fires of his spirit when in the presence of mortals, he felt the pressure lighten, and the will that attempted to bar him began to crumble into fear. Too worried for the hobbits to concern himself with whatever demon’s spawn Thauron had built or imprisoned or conjured into his statues, he hurled himself through the gate as soon as the pressure began to lessen, just in time to watch as Sam drove his sword up under the breastplate of the last orc standing in the courtyard. Behind him a shrill scream sounded from the triple heads of the watchers, but it did not concern him. His presence was revealed already, and he had one hobbit yet to find.

_Surely Sam has not slain all these himself,_ he thought, looking at the bodies strewn about the courtyard, and then saw that many of the corpses lay still in the throes of grappling one another. There had been some disagreement among them, then; common enough among the Enemy’s servants. "You might have left one for me," he said aloud.

"Master Celegorm!" Sam whirled to face him with a start. "I didn’t do all this," he added, waving a hand vaguely over the carnage that was the rest of the courtyard.

"I know," Celegorm replied with a brief smile, "but that does not make your escape less impressive. I did not expect to find you free."

"The orcs never got hold of me at all. I thought Mr. Frodo was…dead…after that spider got him, so I took It, may he forgive me, and bolted when the orcs showed up. Only I couldn’t bring myself to bolt too far, so I put It on and listened."

"The orcs do not have it then? But if you were not captured, how did you come to be in the tower at all?"

"No, they haven’t got It, but they have got Mr. Frodo. I heard the head orc talking after they found him and they said that spider had’t killed him, just knocked him out. I followed them all the way to the tower — there’s an entrance in the tunnels — but when they went through the doors shut and I couldn’t get past them. So I ran back around to the front as hard as I could."

"And you passed the watchers?"

"I did. I thought you’d have known that somehow, though."

"How would I have known?"

"I thought I heard you saying that blessing over me again, right when I was sure I was stuck outside and raising the alarm for nothing and all. It felt like it did in the tunnels, when you had your hand on my shoulder and it was like you’d loaned me a little of your hearing and sight. Then I found I could walk again, and…well, here I am."

Celegorm’s eyes widened in surprise, but he had more pressing concerns. "Did you hear where the orcs were keeping Frodo?"

"No, I didn’t, and I haven’t had any chances to look with all these orcs. But this whole tower climbs backwards-like. I’ve got a feeling he’ll be right at the top if they don’t want anything getting at him, which they won’t. Well, wouldn’t. I don’t think there’re any orcs alive in this whole place now."

"Then let us go."

Sam was already threading his way past the bodies, towards the door into the tower. Celegorm strode after him. Inside, they found stone passages illumined by guttering torches that cast more smoke than light, but the main hallway was clear, and, as Sam had said, it led backwards. Though Sam felt every moment as though more orcs were about to spring out on them from the half-darkened rooms, there was neither sound nor movement save for the wavering shadows cast by the torches, and the sound of their footfalls. They walked on, warily but as swiftly as they could, towards the shadowed staircase that could dimly be seen at the end of the hall.

Not until they were nigh on half-way up the steps did they see or hear aught of any other living creature save themselves. A shadow, huge and wavering in the torchlight, moved hesitantly downward towards them, accompanied by the soft slap of feet. Celegorm seized Sam’s shoulder and pulled him to the side of the stairwell. Sam, guessing what he had in mind, was silent. Only a few moments passed before a small orc rounded the corner, and Celegorm moved like a striking snake, not to kill, but to capture.

"Keep quiet, or you die now," he hissed.

The orc was silent, staring at Celegorm with terrified eyes that darted everywhere but his face. "How many others are in the tower besides you?" Celegorm asked. 

Still their prisoner remained silent, perhaps frightened beyond speech or perhaps stubborn in the face of its enemies. "How many?" Celegorm snarled, shaking the creature savagely.

"One!" it finally squeaked out, a piercing sound that made Celegorm clap his hand over its mouth in an instant.

"Quieter, or you’ll not speak again," he growled. "A goblin like you, or a warrior? And where?"

"Captain Shagrat!" the orc squeaked, but more softly. "Up top."

"Good," Celegorm said in answer, and, in a single motion, snapped the orc’s neck and hurled it carelessly down the steps.

"Come," he said to Sam, paying no heed to the clattering from below, and strode on, taking the steps three at a time. 

Sam had to run to keep up with him, but he did not forget to keep both eyes and ears open for this Captain Shagrat. Up and back they climbed, pausing for a breath to listen at each turn, but never hearing anything until they had reached the top. Then Celegorm stiffened and put down a hand to halt Sam, who stopped at once and pricked up his ears. The sound was so faint that he would never have heard it over the noise of their footsteps, but he could hear soft, rasping breathing coming from somewhere to their left. Then everything seemed to happen at once. A dark shape darted out of one of the many doorways and flung a knife towards Celegorm’s face. The Elf sprang aside to avoid it, and in that moment the orc sprang towards the steps. Sam, with some vague idea of stopping it, stepped forward, but was met with a bundle of something hard that caught him in the face and made him stagger. Before he had recovered, Shagrat — for Sam supposed this had to be him — had vanished down the steps. 

He readied himself to chase after the orc, only to be stopped by a hand on his shoulder. "Let him go," Celegorm said. "He can raise no alarm that has not already been raised."

Some part of Sam’s mind stored away that remark as something important that ought to be discussed, but for now he was wholly intent on searching for Frodo, and there was no room to think of anything else. They seemed to be at the top of the tower, but though they searched all the rooms on that level, they found nothing living, and but few bodies. It seemed that the most of the orcs had been in the lower levels and the courtyard when the fighting broke out. Even the locked rooms, which Celegorm broke open, were devoid of any sign of life. "We must have passed him on the way up," Sam said, disheartened by the idea of searching all the many deserted floors they had walked past, painted in bloody shadows by the red torchlight and full of corpses and smoke.

"Perhaps," Celegorm said, "or perhaps not."

He leaned dangerously far out of one of the windows — at this height above the ground, they were wide enough to lean out of, for few bowman could send an arrow so high — and twisted around so that he was looking upwards. "There is is another level above this one, and light shines from it," he said, pulling himself back in.

"Well how do we get up there? There’s no stairs and no doors."

"None in the walls," Celegorm said meditatively. "But it cannot be wholly closed off or there would be no light."

"A trap door!" Sam exclaimed.

"Precisely. A trap door, most likely with a ladder."

A detail of the central room, hitherto unnoticed, sprang back into Sam’s mind. "There was a ladder on the floor in the middle of that big room," he said.

"Well sighted. Come!"

The ladder was long and heavy, but Celegorm lifted it with little effort, and, after examining the ceiling closely, thrust it upwards hard. The trapdoor, which fitted so closely into its frame that it was nigh on invisible from below, fell open with an echoing bang. Celegorm sprang up the ladder, hand hovering over his sword lest there be something less friendly than Frodo awaiting them. Sam followed him with all speed.

When he reached the top, he was not certain whether the shout that escaped him was relief or rage. Frodo was there, and alive, but he was lying on the floor with a red whip-welt on his back and he had been plundered both of pack and clothes. Celegorm was striding swiftly around the room, occasionally bending over to do something, but Sam had no eyes for him, even when he disappeared back down the ladder. Frodo had turned at the sound of Sam’s shout and braced himself as though expecting a blow. Then his eyes fixed on Sam, and his expression changed from apprehension to confusion. "Sam?"

"Mr. Frodo, sir, thank goodness we found you!"

"We?"

"Master Celegorm’s here too."

"But there were orcs." He paused, and his brow furrowed. Then grief flooded his face, and he said, "Oh, Sam. You’re too late."

"What do you mean, Mr. Frodo?"

"They’ve taken everything. They’ve taken It. We’ve failed. I failed."

"Begging your pardon, but they haven’t. I thought you were dead, so I took it. I’ve got it safe now. Here," and he reached up to his neck, revealing the Ring safe on its chain.

"Sam, you’re a marvel!" Frodo exclaimed. "Here, give it to me," he added, holding out his hand.

"All right," Sam said, unclasping the chain from around his neck and holding it out hesitantly as Celegorm, forgotten for the moment by both hobbits, watched them keenly from his place on the ladder, holding a bundle of something in his arms. "Are you sure you don’t want me to carry it for a bit? It’s an awful weight, Mr. Frodo."

"No!" Frodo snapped, look and voice changing suddenly. "Give it to me at once! You can’t have it!"

"All right," Sam said again, a little startled, and dropped the Ring into Frodo’s waiting palm.

Frodo blinked and shook his head, as though banishing some confusion. "Sam, forgive me. I though I saw something else for a moment. But this is my burden, and mine only. You cannot carry it for me now."

Sam gave him a look of worry, but did not press further. "We’ve got to get you some clothes, Mr. Frodo," he said. "You can’t go walking around Mordor in naught but your skin!"

"There I can be of help," Celegorm said, setting down his bundle on the floor and climbing up into the room once more. 

He said nothing of what had passed between the hobbits, but instead unwrapped the bundle to reveal Frodo’s pack, somewhat torn and dirtied but still serviceable, and a suit of hobbit’s clothes in the same condition, together with what looked like some broken bread and a coil of rope. "Frodo, here are your clothes. They are somewhat worse for the wear, but that will matter but little where you go. Here also is the _lembas_ which was in your pack, all of it that I could gather: the orcs have plundered the other food, but this they would not touch save to break and scatter it, and so some remains. The water was with Sam, and so there is still enough for you both."

Then, seeing Frodo’s back, he added, "I have herbs in my pack for the dressing of wounds, so I will tend to you ere we go."

As Celegorm cleaned and bound the whip-cut and the livid mark of Shelob’s sting, and Frodo dressed himself, a thought came to Sam, and he said, "Wait a minute now. I thought you couldn’t come into Mordor at all without the Enemy seeing you and knowing we were here! And you said that Captain Shagrat couldn’t raise any alarm that hadn’t been raised already. What have you done?"

Celegorm met Sam’s worried eyes and grinned, an expression that neither Sam nor Frodo had never seen on his face before. Gone was the grim set to the eyes and mouth that had never been absent since they met him. For the first time since they had met him, he looked honestly as though he hadn’t a care in the world. There were no sharp edges to his smile, only real happiness, and despite the grime smeared over his face and white-blond hair, he suddenly looked worthy of his name "the Fair". "Quite right, Samwise," he said, still grinning like a Hobbit-child who had suddenly thought of a new prank. "I cannot. If Thauron does not know that I am here by now, he is both blind and deaf, and so are all of his servants."

"Well, what are we going to do?" Sam asked, a little put out by the sudden levity.

_"You_ are going to dress like Orcs. There is gear enough here to disguise a hundred hobbits. Then you will make for Orodruin as straight as you can. You will not be noticed. I guarantee it."

"What about you?"

The grin widened. "I will be seeing to it that no-one in this country, not an Orc, a Nazgûl, not Thauron himself, so much as thinks of looking for you. I may not return in time to guide you back from Orodruin. Do your best to remember the look of the mountains by this place, and remember the way by which you came through the spider’s tunnels. Have no fear in taking this pass without me, for I have slain her and her darkness will fade, and, should your errand succeed, the orcs will scatter. Now we must all go. The alarm was raised the moment Samwise broke the will of the watchers, and something will come to investigate this tower, and soon."

He led them down the stairs at a brisk pace, but not one which was beyond Frodo’s measure, for which Sam was thankful, for his master, though he was looking better and stronger since Celegorm had tended to him, was still moving like a weary or a wounded man. "The watchers?" Frodo asked softly of Sam as they walked together, and Sam explained as best he could about the strange statues that seemed to have their own will and voices, for all that they were stone.

The descent, with Frodo safe and no fear of discovery, for the moment, seemed to take far less time than the ascent had done. Soon they were back in the courtyard, and Frodo looked around in surprise at the carnage that lay there. "Did you do all this?" he asked of Celegorm and Sam.

Celegorm threw his head back and laughed merrily. "I did none of it. Your merry companion did not see fit to leave me so much as a single orc. But as for the rest of it, I deem they did that themselves. The Enemy’s servants need little reason to quarrel with one another." 

Then his face grew solemn, and he said, "But now, I must bid you farewell. Go with words of guard and guiding on you." 

He bent down to clasp each of their forearms in a warriors’ greeting, and then turned to the gate and drew his sword. There was a flash of light so bright they almost could not look on it, and a loud crash, and the triple heads of the watching statues fell and rolled away. Celegorm waved to them cheerfully, then turned on his heel and jogged away with an easy, swinging stride. Sam could have sworn he was humming a tune as he rounded the corner of the gate and disappeared from view. He exchanged a baffled glance with Frodo, who seemed to have no more understanding of the sudden change in their grim guide than he did, and then they both shrugged. "Come on, Sam," Frodo said, "whatever that was all about, we had best do as he says."

Shortly afterwards, two very short Orcs slipped out of the shadowed gates of the Tower of Cirith Ungol, now no longer barred by the will of the Watchers, and made their way swiftly but silently along the road, bearing for Mount Doom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot continues to thicken! Next week we make it back to Gondor again.
> 
> Comments, as always, are welcome!


	33. The Ride of the Rohirrim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grond reaches the gates of Gondor. The defenders struggle to hold the city, and hope that the reinforcements from Rohan will arrive in time.

All the while that siege towers rose and fell beyond the walls, and _mûmakil_ trumpeted, and men fought and fell and rallied and fought again, the bridge of Osgiliath that Boromir had hurled into the stream of Anduin rose stone by stone under the labouring hands of countless orcs. Less than three days had passed after the arrival of Mordor’s army, and a rough arch of stone once more spanned the great river. Grond was coming.

On the walls, once more standing over the gate, Maedhros Fëanorion looked out over the field strewn with the dead and the wounded and the wrecks of engines, and saw the bridge whole once again and the shadow of the ram, black against the blackness, crawling forward over it. He seized the nearest guardsman by the shoulder, and bade him find and tell Boromir at once.

Standing beside Eärendur of the Tower Guard, Peregrin, son of Paladin, heard the chanting of the enemy rolling over the wasted fields of the Pelennor, as many harsh voices cried out together, "Grond! Grond!"

_No man knows what he can do in the last need until that need has been reached, and then he often finds that he can do far more than he thought,_ Eärendur’s voice echoed in his head. _I hope it does not come to that,_ he had replied then, after his first watch on the walls. Now he was on his third watch, and beginning to think that the last need would be on them soon. The shadowy shape of a great ram was advancing slowly and inexorably across the fields of the Pelennor. On its housing no fire would catch, and the great beasts that drew it steadily onwards paid no heed to arrows. 

Rumour ran swiftly down the walls, and so Pippin and all the Guard knew that Boromir had, three days ago, bidden the great trebuchets which lined the walls to be ready to be turned inwards that they might hurl their stones towards the city itself, in preparation for the Gate to be breached. Pippin guessed that Grond was the reason for that order, however Boromir had learnt of it. He sent yet another arrow — one of those that he had found lying on the ground, a rough orc-arrow short enough to fit his small bow — into the waves of orcs, which had not let up in their assault by siege towers and ladders, though the most of the former had been destroyed in the previous two days of battle, and so the plight of the defenders was less desperate than it might have been. Worrying about Grond would not make it come either more swiftly or more slowly, as Eärendur would say. For now, he could see to it that some orcs would not live to enter the city.

Boromir had set a few men to building barricades as soon as Maedhros predicted that the Gate would fall. When the messenger had reached him that morning — or what Maedhros had called the morning — he had ordered them to redouble their efforts. Now he, with several companies drawn from both the outer and inner walls, braced themselves behind a half-circular wall built of carts and rubble and barrels and benches, listening to the chanting outside the walls and the screams of the Nazgûl, which came more and more often now that Maedhros was drawing in his fires for the sake of the men beside whom he fought. Every now and again, when there was a lull in the louder sounds of battle, Boromir and his men could hear the slow rumbling of the ram’s wheels and the thudding footfalls of the beasts that drew it ever onward, nearer to the city.

"Aim for the eyes and the mouth," he heard Maedhros shout from the wall above, and guessed that he was speaking of the beasts. 

A few moments later, and a shout of triumph went up from the walls as the earth trembled under a great impact. There was a lull in the ever-present rumbling of the wheels, Boromir guessed that one of the beasts had been felled. All too soon, however, the orcs’ chanting resumed, and though Maedhros did his best to guide the archers, there was no second check. Then there was a great echoing _boom_ that silenced every other sound and rebounded from the flanks of Mindolluin like thunder, and the gates trembled. Grond had come.

Curufin, had he been well, would not have not left the walls since his arrival. As it was, he had accompanied Captain Mallor and his men to the barracks for a few hours of rest. Now he was once more standing vigil, lending his sword wherever it was most needed. Though he was on the other half of the city’s circle from the gates, he was still half-deafened by the sound of Grond’s first stroke against the gate. He set off towards the gate, and Maedhros, at a run. It no longer mattered if his brother knew that he had left the Houses of Healing. They would need every sword. As he ran, there was a second stroke, and then the voice of a Nazgûl cried out words of rending and shattering in the black tongue of Morgoth. Curufin paused in his desperate race to answer the words of power with words of his own, calling the tortured metal to hold a little longer against Grond’s onslaught. The whole wall shuddered with the third blow, and Curufin ran the swifter.

His voice and the Nazgûl’s sounded again at the same time as he raced on, and then the gates groaned under a fourth blow, then a fifth. Finally, he reached the gates, and nearly struck against Maedhros in his desperate speed. Maedhros looked grimly at him, and did not ask how he came to be on the walls. Instead, he asked, "How long can you hold the gates together?"

"Not long," Curufin panted. "Against the wraiths’ words or the ram alone, I could perhaps hold them for some time, but they cannot stand both together."

"Are you well enough to hold the wall?" Maedhros set his hand briefly on Curufin’s good shoulder.

"Yes. Go. They will need you below when the gate is breached."

Maedhros nodded and strode away. Curufin began to sing under his breath, pleading with the gates hold just a little longer. Metal and gems were ever the readiest of all things to answer his will, but though he could urge them to the limits of their strength and beauty in ways that no mortal and few Eldar ever could, he could not force them past those limits. Grond fell against the gates again, and he felt the bars crack and the hinges bend. Then the great ram boomed one more time, and the Nazgûl shrieked, and, with an ear-splitting noise, the gate shattered.

The next instant, grappling hooks clashed against the battlements, and Curufin knew that he would have no leisure to aid the warriors in the city below. He would have to trust to Maedhros.

Orcs poured through the archway, racing over the shattered shards of the gate, and were met at once by a hail of arrows. Their lines wavered, and some turned to flee, only to be trampled to death under the feet of the trolls that followed them. Arrows did not hinder the trolls, and barricades only slowed them. Boromir sprang forward, a spear in his hand, to meet the first of them, lest the barriers be overthrown. Maedhros leapt forward beside him like a hunting hound slipped from the leash, and laughed as his blade buried itself deep in a troll’s throat.

Then there was a shrill, wailing cry from the gates. The few remaining orcs scattered and were slain, and even the trolls parted to reveal a terrible shape seated on a black horse (if horse it was, for red fire gleamed in its eyes and nostrils, and but few beasts would bear the presence of the Nazgûl). Its hood was thrown back to reveal a kingly crown, but between cowl and crown there was only emptiness, and a flicker of corpse-light in the place of eyes. "Men of Gondor, your doom is come," said the Witch-King of Angmar, Lord of the Nazgûl, speaking with a voice like Death, and rode on through the shattered gate and into the city. 

The Witch-King drew his sword, and blue flames ran up the blade. Despite Maedhros’ protecting presence, many of the guardsmen had flinched at his voice. Now weapons slipped from nerveless hands, and even the boldest stood as though frozen. Some had fallen to their knees or were lying on the ground. "Get them behind the barricade," Maedhros called to Boromir, fire kindling in his eyes.

"Retreat to the barricades!" Boromir shouted, parrying a troll’s blow which shook his arm to the shoulder, and his command seemed to stir his terrified men to action once more.

Boromir was last over the barrier, ushering a young guardsman who seemed dazed with very fear before him. He was climbing up as a blast of furnace-hot air struck him from behind and rolled him right over the top into the arms of the waiting men. _"Úlairë!"_ Maedhros roared in a voice like the sound of a wildfire. _"Á mahta inyë!"_

The Nazgûl reined its horse to a halt, and the beast stamped and shifted uneasily as Maedhros strode forward. The trolls reeled back, their stone burned and blistered by the fire that burned in him like a brand, revealed at last. Those that staggered too far were set upon by the men of Gondor, and fell, and did not rise again. No mortal could have met Maedhros’ gaze, even had any dared to try. Flames, red and gold and white, seemed to lick at his hair and run down his armour and twine themselves around his upraised sword like burning vines. The Witch-King’s horse drew back one step, then two, and then suddenly the wraith had reined it about with savage force and was galloping desperately back through the gates, away from Maedhros. The orcs drew away from their captain’s desperate race, and those that were too slow were trampled beneath the feet of his steed. 

For a few moments, all was quiet. Smoke rose from the stone corpses of the trolls. The soldiers of Gondor looked in silent awe at the empty archway and the ranks of orcs beyond, all perfectly still as though awaiting some signal, all looking where the Witch-King had gone. Boromir was the first to recall himself. He sprang back over the barricade and seized Maedhros by the arm. "That will hold them for a time," he said urgently, "but you should not be alone in the open when they return."

Maedhros shook his head as though recalled to himself from a distance, and nodded to Boromir, turning back towards the barricades. From outside the wall came the sound of harsh shouting and the cracking of whips, and then the rumble of many racing feet. Maedhros nearly stumbled at the top of the barricade and grasped Boromir’s shoulder to steady himself as he reached safety. 

He did so none too soon, as orcs and trolls poured through the gate once more, the flood that had been momentarily checked rising once more with the vengeance of pent-up waters. The archers loosed once more, and once more many orcs fell, but the instant they fell more took their place. "Are you well?" Boromir asked Maedhros, laying a hand on the Elf’s shoulder.

"Only weary," Maedhros answered, "I have seen worse, and I have no doubt that I shall again ere this is over."

Boromir smiled grimly. "No doubt we all will. To work, then."

"To work," Maedhros said, and, seizing an orc’s head in his hand, broke its neck in a swift, practiced motion, before reaching for the sword he had set down. After that, there was no time for talk.

Some hours later, Pippin sent his last arrow speeding towards the orcs charging towards the gate, set Penlod’s bow down for a moment, and swept a weary hand over his eyes. The darkness, if anything, had grown deeper since his last watch, and he had no idea what time it might be, but there was a lull in the fighting about him for the moment. If he were not so weary, he thought he might have been hungry. A water-skin appeared on his left side, and he took it with a nod of thanks to the guard who offered. He thought he knew the man’s name, but at the moment he could not think of it. He drank thirstily and handed the water-skin on down the line of men, and looked about him for spent arrows that he could use. About him, men were taking advantage of the moment’s respite to heave the corpses of their fallen foes over the walls. A healer scrambled up the stairway near them and made purposefully towards Baranor, who was slumped against the wall, a hand pressed over the dark stain on his side where an orc-sword had found the joint of his armour. 

Pippin had just dared to think that perhaps he might have time to sit down for a few minutes when the shouting from the city below grew louder, and a few moments later a guardsman Pippin did not recognise came hurrying up the steps and called out, "Captain Eärendur, sir!"

"Here," said Eärendur, his voice hoarse from shouting over the clangour of battle.

"The men in the City need reinforcements, sir," the man panted. His armour was stained with dust and sweat and blood, but though his weariness was clear he bore himself well. "The trolls have breached the barricade in several places and their positions are in danger of being overrun. Lord Boromir has called Captain Mallor and his men out from the upper circles once more. He and the greater part of his men will take charge of the defence of the wall. The rest are under Lord Boromir’s command, and you are bidden to come to their aid with your men as soon as Captain Mallor’s men have charge of the wall."

"Very well," said Eärendur. "Tell Boromir that we will come to his aid as soon as Mallor and his men arrive."

The guard saluted and disappeared. A few minutes later, during which the orcs remembered that they had bows once again and began to pepper the walls with arrows, which Pippin picked up whenever he could, a company of fresh men marched up the stairs in neat order, and reported to Eärendur as their relief. Eärendur acknowledged him briefly and led his weary band down into the city walls. Pippin noticed that, though their replacements were fresh, there were fewer of them than of the men who were departing, and he wondered what it meant.

It was not very long before he had to set his curiosity aside. Though Boromir and his men were labouring valiantly to close up the breaches in their rough barriers, many orcs and trolls had fought their way through in his despite. Some circled around to attack the defenders from the rear. Others, finding themselves suddenly running through the streets of a fair city, went in search of plunder, or, in their lust for destruction, set fires and beat down doors, heedless of all but the need to cut and crush and shatter all before them that was fair. Eärendur and his company had several clashes with such wandering bands as they marched towards the sounds of battle, but none were over-large, and most broke and ran at the sight of a column of armed men bearing down on them. Pippin slung his bow over his back and set his hand on the hilt of his barrow-blade as the shouting and clanging of the main battle grew nearer and nearer.

He rounded one last corner and found himself in the large open square that lay before the gates, which was nigh on wholly full of men and orcs locked in combat. The noise of it was deafening: an endless cacophony of clanging, booming, thudding, and shouting. In some places, the soldiers of Gondor still held the line of the rough barricades, thrusting the orcs and trolls back towards the gate with spears as their archers sent what few arrows they still had speeding towards the foe. In others they had been driven back almost to the houses, keeping their backs to walls as often as they could, and the archers no longer dared loose their arrows for fear of striking down friend along with foe. Over all, unafraid of arrows now, soared the Nazgûl, and their fell voices pierced even that terrible clangour. One company, surrounded, stood near them in a steadily shrinking square with the wounded at the centre. As Pippin watched, a troll stormed past the smashed and abandoned carts that had been part of the barricade, and brought its club smashing down on the nearest side of the square. It fell a moment later, pierced by spears, but its work was already done and the square dwindled in an instant to a little knot of desperate men fighting back-to-back.

Eärendur charged forward with a roar, and Pippin, racing forward on his heels, found that he was shouting as well. Then there was a crash like great boulders crashing into a cliff at the feet of the mountains, and their column smashed into the flank of the surging orc-tide like a hammer upon red-hot iron. "For Gondor," Pippin heard men shouting near him, but he could not see who shouted, for his world had shrunk to the two men at his side and the two orcs before him. All was darkness and noise and stench, relieved occasionally by the gleam of lurid torchlight reflecting off of steel. He parried and slashed and stabbed at the orcs, and many of them fell, for his companions guarded him from their savage downward blows, and he struck from below when they did not expect it, but there were always more, and already his arms were burning with weariness. Once he felt warmth and new strength sweep through him, and caught a glimpse of flame-red hair, but the river of battle swept him back almost before he was even sure of what he had seen.

Then he struck at an orc and saw it fall before his blow went home, and found himself looking not at another orc, but at Boromir. Boromir nodded curtly to him, but did not speak to him. Instead, he said, "Captain Eärendur, and none too soon! The barriers to the south have had the worst of it, though you have already done much for them. Send the most of your men with me, and Lord Maedhros and I will see to it that the orcs are driven back behind the barricades. We must hold them as long as may be. Take two companies with you, and see to the north."

Eärendur motioned two companies forward and led them north at a run. Boromir looked over the men who remained with clear approval, and sent Pippin an encouraging smile. Pippin drew himself up and nodded, doing his best to say without words that he was ready to follow Boromir to whatever end. "Follow me," Boromir said, and plunged back into the melée. 

Pippin took a deep breath, shifted his grip on his barrow-blade, and plunged after him. 

Captain Mallor watched as Rodnor sent an arrow speeding into the throat of a troll that had climbed nearly to the battlements on the most recent of many ladders, and then lent a hand to wrench one of the long poles loose and hurl the wreckage down to the field, where hideous mounds of fallen Orcs and Men lay amidst the splintered poles of countless ladders and engines. As no more ladders appeared at once, and the few siege engines which remained seemed to be occupied elsewhere and making little progress, he spared a glance over his shoulder towards the city below to see what he could of the battle, which was little. He no longer measured time by hours, now, but by how heavy his sword felt in his hand when he grasped it. His fingers were frozen to the leaden hilt now, and his attempts to pry them off had been in vain. _At least I run no danger of losing my weapon now,_ he thought grimly. 

Curufin had stridden past several times since his desperate race towards the gates, and once had helped them drive back a force of orcs that had come up from inside the city, evidently having forced their way through Boromir’s defensive lines, but he had not returned for some time. Mallor guessed that he was dealing with the last of the siege engines. Then some change in the colour of the noise from the city below caught his attention, and he looked down to see that the orcs and trolls were pouring unchecked through the gates. The gleaming steel by which he knew the men of Gondor was steadily being forced back and down. A clang and clatter behind him announced the arrival of yet more grappling hooks, followed shortly after by ladders, which the orcs had already half scaled. Whirling, he saw Rodnor reach for an arrow from his quiver, and falter as his hand met emptiness. Before Mallor could lift his too-heavy sword to Rodnor’s defence, an orc had seized the man by the throat and hurled him off the wall towards the houses. 

Mallor turned with a shout of rage and swept his blade up and down in a swing that clove the orc to the neck, then wrenched his sword out and brought it up again in the same instant, some instinct having warned him of the orc that had nearly struck him through from behind. There was a hoarse shout from behind him, and he turned away from the ladder to see that orcs were swarming up the steps to the walls, and several trolls were beginning their clumsy ascent. Overhead, the Nazgûl screamed, and for a moment he could heed nothing else. The cold retreated from his limbs more slowly than the last time, as though the fire that burned it away were fading, and with what little thought he had to spare, which was little indeed, he worried for what would happen when Maedhros’ protection failed them wholly. But then, he doubted that they would last long enough to find out. Somewhere, a voice was shouting, "Fall back! Fall back to the second level," but Mallor knew that there was no falling back for the men on the wall, not with the defenders in the city already driven so far back — the gates of the second level would be closed before they could reach them. 

Instead, he roared, "Charge!" and sprang down the steps towards the orcs, raising his sword for what he was sure was the last time, or something near it. Instead of his customary warcry, he found himself shouting his wife’s name, as though Erinti might hear his farewell across all the miles that separated them and know that he had fallen in defence of her and their children.

Then the orcs halted and lowered their blades, staring away to the west. Mallor was so startled that he halted as well and followed their gazes. Then he heard what they had heard. Horns. Horns, horns, horns. Great horns of the North wildly blowing.

Then there was a wind in his face, and a piercing shaft of gold stabbed down from the black and festering sky onto the battlefield. Rohan had come, and the sun rose to greet them.

Standing fiercely over the unconscious body of Eärendur, whose helm was dented by a savage blow from an orcish mace, Pippin lifted his sword in defiance and braced himself for the troll’s spear to run him through. _You were right, Captain, I did do more than I ever thought I could, _he thought, _but I can’t stop this. Frodo, I hope it’s enough._ Then there was a great rolling, ringing noise like a river of gold turned to sound, and a brilliant beam of sunlight smote down from the east onto the field beyond the walls. A moment later he knew the sound for what it was: the music of many horns. _Rohan,_ he thought in awe, _and just in time!_ He had never heard such music before, but it sang in his veins like wine, and he sprang forward towards the stunned troll with a cry of fury and joy, "For Gondor! Rohan for Gondor!"

Maedhros, standing beside Boromir, blade flashing like fire as he fought, always striving to hold the orcs back from the weary and wounded men who sheltered behind them from the inexorable tide as they slowly retreated from house to house towards the second level, felt something change in the air, but he had no time to attend to it. The Nazgûl screamed overhead once more, though their Witch-King had not dared approach the city since Maedhros had driven him back, at which Maedhros smiled grimly. He sent his fire after the cold they left in their wake as best he could, but even as mighty as he was, first-born of the Spirit of Fire and forged in the dungeons of Morgoth, he could not guard so many men from Thauron’s crafts forever.

Beside him, Boromir winced as an orc’s blow glanced off his armoured side over the wound that Denethor had dealt him. His side ached, his arms were leaden, and every step was a fresh weariness. Even tireless Maedhros was moving more slowly now, he thought, but that did not matter. Neither of them dared stop to rest, even for an instant, lest the orcs be on them and then men they defended. Then there rose over the suddenly silenced clamour of battle a sound that Boromir had given up all hope of hearing before his city fell and he fell with her: the horns of Rohan, ringing clear through the darkened air. Close on their wake, a stabbing spear of golden light came down through the clouds and shone upon the battlefield. Boromir laughed aloud, and heard Maedhros behind him do the same, as with renewed strength he strode forward towards the orcs. Behind him, the men rallied with cries of "Rohan for Gondor! Rohan to Minas Tirith!"

Boromir lifted his own horn from where it hung, as ever, on the baldric by his side, and blew three mighty blasts that seemed to Maedhros as though they would cleave the very air. The horn of Gondor echoed down from the walls of countless houses as though every soldier of Gondor made music to answer the music of Rohan. "Forward," Maedhros cried, lifting his sword once more, casting aside his weariness, and leapt forth in Boromir’s wake.

Down from the Firien-wood, over the ruined Pelennor wall, rode ten thousand horsemen of Rohan and Rivendell, and the sun blazed forth before them. Théoden King rode before all save one, his shield shining golden in the new sunlight, and before the onrushing army the people of Sauron quailed and were afraid. Second only to the king rode Glorfindel, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower of Gondolin, at the head of the cavalry of Rivendell: few they were, but doughty folk, mighty in the craft of war, and they laughed as they slew. Forth before them all came Gandalf the White, mounted on Shadowfax, and in the new sunlight he was too bright for mortal eyes to look upon. The orcs withered and wailed before him and cast away their weapons, and the hooves of wrath rode over them.

Holding on very firmly to Éomer with his free hand, Merry looked out over the field and laughed, for the fierce joy of battle was on him. Everywhere the orcs were retreating. Éomer’s sword was keen and his arm was strong and he rode in the king’s wake, and so Merry had hardly gotten a chance at any orcs yet. Somewhere in Elfhelm’s éored, off to their left, he thought, was the young rider who bore so startling a resemblance to the Lady Éowyn. Merry hoped that she would be all right.

The Rohirrim rode on like the white crest of a wave leaping up from the deeps of the sea into the brilliant sunlight, and Orcs and Men and even trolls were buffeted and overwhelmed like flotsam in the tide. Behind them marched the footmen of Rivendell in even and gleaming lines of burnished steel and _mithril,_ bearing with them devices that had not been seen since the Last Alliance or before, and behind them came many liegemen of Gondor, marching in from the outlands near Rohan. Elrond Halfelven, at the head of all that company, reined in his prancing war-horse. On his right hand was the device of the Children of Lúthien, gold flowers and white on a ground of black. On the left was the flame-rayed star of the House of Fëanor, gleaming in red and gold. The ranks of the enemy, thrown into disarray by the fierce charge of the Rohirrim, had no time to gather and strike at their first assailants from the rear, for still the folk of Rivendell recalled the valour of the Second Age and the ancient might of their people.

No check came that could halt the onrushing horsemen until they had come nigh to the shattered gate of Minas Tirith. There the oncoming sunlight grew dimmer, for the clouds belched out from Orodruin were not wholly swept away by the wind from the south, and there the Haradrim had rallied about their _mûmakil_ and stood at bay, and the fleeing orcs took shelter behind them from the shining light of Gandalf, who pursued them still. Forth from the shadow of the _mûmakil_ rode their king and his knights, and the king shouted defiance, displaying his standard, a black serpent on scarlet. 

Forth to meet them rode Théoden King and his knights, for as he slackened his speed they had come up about him, and Éomer and Merry with them. Fierce was that clash as they rode together, but keener was the knighthood of the Northmen with long spears and bitter, and fierce was the fire that burned in their breasts. Théoden King rode before all, and first he sought out the standard, hewed staff and bearer, and the black serpent foundered.

In and out among the feet of the _mûmakil_ rode Gandalf, for Shadowfax alone of horses dared draw near them, and the drivers were afraid and called him _demon_ and _sun-spirit_ and sought to draw back, but could not, for the press was too thick behind them.

Forth from the gates of Gondor marched the Guards of the Citadel, led by Boromir and Maedhros still, weary and wounded but shouting their joy to the skies as the orcs were driven shrieking from the gates. Boromir lifted the great horn from its baldric once more, and sent three more horn-calls ringing into the morning skies. Beside him marched Peregrin Took of the Shire. His blade was black with orc-blood and weariness was graven in his face, but he smiled as he looked out over the field of retreating orcs and marched on, his brothers-in-arms beside him.

Then, all at once, the light dimmed. Shrill cries filled the air, and the six Nazgûl dove down out of the clouds like bolts of cloying darkness. As though on a signal, the drivers of the _mûmakil_ goaded their bellowing beasts forward against the cavalry of Rohan. The Nazgûl all converged on the gold shield of Théoden King like hawks sweeping down on prey. Pippin shouted and sprang forward. The king was not very far from the gates, and he had already come some way from the city. There was some commotion behind him, but he did not heed it, wholly intent on reaching the place he had last seen Théoden. Five Nazgûl were circling in the air, now, moving away from where they had landed. The sixth remained like a shadow on the ground. Pippin ran harder. His legs and arms burned, but after so many hours of pushing his weariness back, it was easy to do so now. The Nazgûl had carried too many men off of the walls over the preceding days. He had to reach Théoden, and swiftly.

He nearly stumbled over the king’s fallen horse when he reached the place. It only took one glance down to tell him that there was nothing to be done. He was not too late, for since the king’s horse had fallen upon him there had never been a chance. Pippin turned towards the Nazgûl, fearing that his moment’s abstraction had cost him, only to see that someone else stood between the wraith and him. "Be you living or dark undead," said a high, clear voice, "I will kill you if you touch him!"

"I shall bear thee to the houses of lamentation," the Nazgûl hissed in answer, "where thy flesh shall be stripped away and thy withered soul be naked before the gaze of the Lidless Eye!"

The fell-beast reached out and snapped at the youth, and Pippin readied himself to run forward to the boy’s aid — for he could be no more than a boy with such a voice — when, to Pippin’s surprise, he dealt a swift stroke, skilled and deadly, and the foul head fell cloven from the neck. The beast fell back in its death-throes, and the sky was clear once more. But out of the ruin rose the Lord of the Nazgûl, and he lifted a great black mace. "Thou fool," he said, "no living man can kill me."

_Let’s hope Hobbits don’t count as Men then,_ Pippin thought, readying his blade again and trying to push aside the coldness of fear that seized at his heart and made his hands tremble. But once more, he was surprised, for the youth laughed, and reached up to his helm. "I am no man," he said, and cast aside the helm, to reveal long golden hair that gleamed in the sunlight.

The Witch-King halted for the smallest part of a second, but it was enough. Casting aside all other thoughts, Pippin hurled himself forward, striking for the knees in a motion he had practiced many times over the siege. His blade buried itself to the hilt in unseen flesh, and a sharp pain and cold lanced up his sword-arm. He fell back, clutching his arm in agony, and saw the maiden, for so she was indeed, strike a mighty blow at the Witch-King’s neck. The fell light of his eyes was quenched, and the crown of iron rolled away. A moment later, Pippin was looking at empty robes, as high and far away a voice that no longer had any power to affright went wailing off into the sky, and dwindled, and was heard no more.

The maiden fell to her knees, and then to the ground. Pippin guessed that she had been struck by the same the same sudden icy pain that had seized him when he stabbed the Nazgûl’s knee. He rose to his feet as best he could and bent to pick up his sword, but even as he watched the blade smoked and writhed, and withered like a brand, until naught remained. So perished the Barrow-blade, work of Westernesse, and happy would he that wrought it have been to hear of its fate. Pippin turned from the blade and went to the maiden’s side, but could not rouse her, though her pulse still beat steady. Then he remembered the king.

The great white horse had rolled away from his master in his death-throes, but the fall had done its work. Pippin knelt beside the helmless old man, and looked down into a peaceful face. As though he felt Pippin’s gaze, Théoden opened his eyes. "Master Holbytla," he said, in a voice that was quiet, but not strained. 

Pippin nodded. Perhaps he had been mistaken for Merry, as happened so often, or perhaps not, but that did not matter. "Is there aught I can do, my lord?" he asked.

"No," said Théoden, still softly but calmly. "My body is broken. I go to the halls of my fathers, in whose mighty company I shall not now be ashamed — yea, even in the company of my son who trod the path before me, I shall not be ashamed. Éomer must take up my seat in the high hall."

Pippin looked up to see that he and the king were circled round with knights of Rohan. One stepped forward. Pippin guessed that he must be Éomer. "He is here, lord," he said softly.

Théoden looked up. Seeing his banner lying still in the hands of its slain bearer nearby, he made signs that it should be given to Éomer. "Sister-son," he said, "now I call you my son in truth. You must lead our people. Bid Éowyn farewell!"

With those words, he closed his eyes and breathed no more. Pippin bowed his head in grief, as did the knights about him. "Take up the body," said Éomer to the knights, "and let him be borne to the Citadel, there to lie in honour." Then he gave a cry, seeing the body of the maid that lay there, and said, "Éowyn, Éowyn, how came you here? What madness is this? Death, death, death take us all! Ride to ruin, and the world’s ending!"

The knights of Rohan gathered about him and mounted their horses once more, all crying out together, "Death, death, death!" and swept past them into the battle.

Those whom Éomer had bidden to take up their king remained, together with one more, whom Pippin, though his head was swimming, was sure looked familiar. Slowly his weary mind put a name to the face. "Merry? Is that you?"

"Pippin! What happened to you?" Merry sounded worried, Pippin noticed as though from far away. 

He had not thought himself quite as tired as all that, but now it seemed that he could barely keep his eyes open. Then he remembered where the cold had come from. "Stabbed him," he managed. "Arm went all cold…sword withered away like wood. Now all’s cold…cold and dark."

"Let’s get you to the healers," Merry’s voice said distantly, and then the cold and the dark surged up like the sea and dragged Pippin under, and he knew no more.

Maedhros stood upon a little hillock in the field of the Pelennor, leaning wearily on his sword, and surveyed a field that lay still in doubt. The knights of Rohan had driven the enemy clear out of nigh on half the field. He was grateful now that the orcs had uprooted and destroyed all the traps he and the Rangers had laid for them in the fields, for by so doing they had cleared the way for the Rohirrim. But the _mûmakil_ were still, all too often, unfought, standing as towers of defence, and Mithrandir had gone into the citadel with the healers when he saw what had befallen the Lady Éowyn and Pippin. Éomer led the Rohirrim now, charging recklessly into the ranks of the enemy, and there was no staying him, but Maedhros feared for what might befall him, should he be cut off from all aid, as seemed like to happen as the charge of the Rohirrim pierced deeper and deeper into the ranks of the foe.

Their plight would have been all but hopeless, but for the folk of Rivendell, who rode under insignia that had made Maedhros’ breath catch. For Elrond to speak of him as a father in private was one thing, but to ride to battle under the sigil of the House of Fëanor was another. There were still those in this land who remembered when that ensign had been as like to be borne to battle against Elves as Orcs, albeit few of them. 

Now was not the time for such thoughts, however. Elrond and Glorfindel and their men had not followed Éomer’s mad charge. Instead, they marched on in perfect order, some to defend the gate of Gondor, some to cover the rear of the charging Rohirrim. Boromir now ordered his own column forward to join with them. The soldiers of Gondor would not consent to be left out of the battle now, no matter how weary they might be. Boromir turned to Maedhros with face lighter than it had been for many days, and asked, "Well, are you ready?"

Maedhros bared his teeth as he replied, "More than ready."

Together they strode down to battle. Even with the aid of the folk of Rivendell, it was no easy task. The _mûmakil,_ now that Mithrandir had joined the healers, could be halted only by archers who dared ride close enough to shoot at their eyes, and so by far the most of them still lived and trampled down any who came too near. Éomer had extended his reach too far, and now was in peril of being cut off for all Elrond’s diligence. It pained Maedhros not to go to his son now, but he was needed still with the folk of Gondor, for the orcs were rallying against them and they were hard pressed.

Then a cry went up from the city: "The Corsairs of Umbar! The Corsairs of Umbar are here! Fall back!"

The shouting did not last long, for Captain Mallor knew well how to control his troops, but it had been heard. Orcs and Easterlings looked with hope to the black-sailed ships that drifted up Anduin on the morning breeze. Men of Rohan and Gondor wavered, and their advance slowed to a halt. Some few, however, those who knew something of the plans afoot, awaited with bated breath the unveiling of the flag borne by the lead galleon, Maedhros and Boromir among them.

The wind caught the black flag and spread it wide, and upon its fabric there was broidered a high crown and seven stars: the emblems of Isildur that had not been borne by any Man in Gondor for years beyond count. The crown flashed in the sunlight, for it had been wrought of gems by Arwen Evenstar for he whom she loved, and the stars glittered, for they were of _mithril_ thread. It was a standard for a king of old, such a standard as Elros might have borne, long ago, on the green fields of Númenor. A cheer went up by the wharfs, and gathered force until it was a wave of sound rolling over the field and gathering force as it rolled. Maedhros himself cried aloud, "Aragorn to Gondor! Aragorn the King!" and behind him many more took up the cry, "The King! The King is come to Gondor! The King returns!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quenya translation:  
What Maedhros said was essentially, "fight me," except with an emphatic pronoun, so the emphasis is "fight _me_ and not all these other people." Long story short, he told the Nazgûl to pick on someone its own size. He's so dramatic.
> 
> And there you have it: the battle for Gondor! Next chapter we return to Mordor.
> 
> Comments are much appreciated, as always!


	34. I Rode Singing In The Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frodo and Sam journey through Gorgoroth. Celegorm runs a very effective distraction.

Frodo and Sam, their heavy orc-gear discarded now that they were well away from the tower of Cirith Ungol, slipped from shadow to shadow in the plains of Gorgoroth through the brown twilight that now passed for day. They had seen no Orcs on their trail, true to Celegorm’s word, but Sam thought he had seen something else in the shadows, a sallow, skeletal creature with wide gleaming eyes that ducked back into the shadows whenever he looked back. He thought back to the log with eyes, and kept a hand on his short sword.

Despite the supplies Celegorm had given them, Sam was beginning to worry about provisions as well, mostly about water. The air of Mordor had a bitter tang that dried the mouth, and they had drunk more of the three waterskins they had than he liked. Once they had found a tiny trickle of a stream amid the twisted, thorny bushes that lurked in the foothills of the Ephel Duath, but now that they were out of the shadows of those mountains there was neither life nor water, only a dry, dusty, pockmarked wasteland, illumined by the dull red fires of Mount Doom — Mount Doom, which, alone of all that they could see, grew slowly but steadily larger as they journeyed, and seemed also to grow brighter, its fires leaping higher and ever higher, until Sam almost wondered if it answered to the Ring’s approaching power.

"I wonder where Celegorm’s got to," Sam said thoughtfully when they halted for the night, camping in one of the larger craters as the pitch blackness of utterly starless night enveloped them, unbroken save for the red flashes cast by Mount Doom and the dimmer, stranger light which flashed at times from the direction in which they knew Barad-Dur lay.

"Probably leading the orcs for a merry chase somewhere well away from here," Frodo answered. "I hope he keeps himself in one piece."

"The way he was smiling, I don’t think there’s anything to worry about."

"Maybe," Frodo said doubtfully. "I hope you’re right."

"Naught we can do but wait and do our bit now, an’ trust him to do his."

Frodo shifted in the dark, seeking a more comfortable position on the broken ground. "You’re right, Sam, and that’s very wise of you," he said after a moment, "but I can’t help worrying about him."

Some time earlier, Celegorm had gone striding down the road to Barad Dur unconcealed in either body or spirit, singing softly under his breath as he went, a simple old hunting-song that he had learnt when he rode still in Oromë’s train, so many thousand years ago as Middle-Earth counted them. The hounds had sung it with them, he remembered, sometimes in the speech of the Elves and sometimes in the deep baying notes of the pack, keeping time as their masters followed the trail. Huan had still kept time with him as he sang them when he hunted the woods of Beleriand, at first. 

But he and Huan had had much time to speak and to forgive in Mandos’ Halls, though the great hound had not chosen to return to Middle-Earth with his master, and so Celegorm turned his mind to more pleasant things than the memories of long-drowned Beleriand and his own foolish cruelty. So far, he thought very little of the precautions Thauron took in guarding his borders. It was true that most of the garrison at Cirith Ungol, which was doubtless meant to deal with any intruders who found their way past Shelob, had killed itself off, but when he had forced his way through the gates, the watchers had cried out in anger and fear, and such an alarm should have been answered, and swiftly. Nevertheless, so far he had met no-one on the road save for a few isolated orcs, and they had been easily dealt with.

The slight weariness of his battle with Shelob, and the nicks and bruises he had bought in it, did not trouble him now, for he had a trail to follow. He hunted a quarry greater than he had ever tracked before, and he hunted also for a road — a road that would lead him through the heart of Thauron’s defences, there to wreak havoc and destruction. He had hoped to find that the main road was the path he sought, but so far it had been most disappointing. Then, as his keen ears caught a sound from a little way behind, he revised his last thought. This was a good road indeed, for it carried to him the tread of many marching feet. He hastened towards the next corner which offered him good concealment.

The orcs rounded a bend in the road, a whole double column, heads down, running for all they were worth, in fear of the lash behind them and in fear of the battle ahead. The first rank never even knew what the blinding flash of light portended that was the last thing they ever saw. The second rank saw a keen-edged blade before they fell to join their comrades. The third raised a yell, and the column bunched up behind them, ranks jostled together until all semblance of formation was lost, in despite of the _uruks_ who plied their whips and shouted again and again for order.

Laughing, Celegorm clove through the ranks of milling, startled orcs like a bolt of fire through the night, sword in one hand and knife in the other, until none remained. "So Thauron sends his petty soldiery after the intruder, does he?" he asked aloud of the corpses that littered the road. "He will need to do better than that to halt a Son of Fëanor."

It seemed that his message was heard, for it was not very long before he heard the heavy footsteps of many armoured orcs, coming from up ahead this time. He drew his sword and knife again, and melted into the shadows beside the road, and waited. His road, it seemed, had come to him.

It might have been hours or days later that he came to the den of his quarry, and looked up at the towering spike of black stone and black steel that rose from the plains of Gorgoroth like an arrow from the back of a corpse. He was covered in dust and blood — mostly the black blood of orcs, but some of it was his own, for Thauron had sent countless orcs and trolls after this interloper who was the first in centuries to breach his defences, and even his skill could not save him wholly from such a thicket of spears and swords and arrows. Thauron had not sent the Nazgûl, and Celegorm was rather disappointed by this, but it must have meant that Maedhros was keeping them busy in Gondor, and for that he could be grateful, even if it denied him the chance to face and fight one of Thauron’s newest devilries.

_If only my uncle could see me now,_ he thought as he strode up to the gate, which was marked with many runes and curiously wrought in patterns that seemed fair at first, but on a longer examination, grew to be unnatural and unsettling. He came forward unmolested, and smote on the door thrice with the hilt of his sword. "Thauron!" he cried aloud, and then, in the Quenya of Valinor that he had spoken in his youth, he issued the challenge that had once fallen from Fingolfin’s lips as he rode over the ruined fields of Ard-Galen in despair: "Come forth, thou craven lord of slaves, and face me!"

There was no answer from the gates. Celegorm laughed aloud for scorn.

"And yet I had forgot: thou art thyself a slave to that jail-crow of Mandos who languishes now in the Void, crownless and chained! Is this thy courage? Is this thy soldiery? Is this thy fortress? I see but cowardice. I see but pale reflections of thy master’s fortress of Angband and his mighty hordes of orcs and dragons! Where are thy dragons? Where are thy countless swarms of uruks? Thy mighty servants Thuringwethil and Draugluin? Oh, thou darest not face me, for fear my power should outstrip thine. If thou fearest me, hear this: my brothers come, and they bear a relic of thy past that thou knowest well — yea, and they shall bring thy doom. If thou fearest thy safety, I shall wait for thee here, and together my brothers and I shall break the gates of thy vaunted fortress and drag thy foul body forth into the light from thy dark corners even as the Valar of old drew thy master out from his throne where he cowered."

The gates swung outwards. "Pricked in the pride," Celegorm murmured to himself with a smile, "and hoping to trap me with a child’s trick. Treacherous fool."

He stepped forward under the high arch of the gate, and, the moment he was out of view of the battlements, sprang forward into a roll, regained his feet, and brought his sword around in a swift slash that sent the first of the many ranks of uruks that had lain hidden in the shadows springing back from the keen edge of his blade. "Thou wert ever a craven, Thauron," he cried to the top of the tower as he stepped away from the great club that was even now whistling towards his head, and almost carelessly parried away the heavy, brutal blade that had struck for his knees at the same moment. "But I thank thee for giving me a proper challenge at last. I had thought that that spider that lurked on the corners of the land was the only creature thou hadst that could come nigh to matching me."

After that, he saved his breath and his mind alike for fighting. It was a challenge indeed, for these orcs were Thauron’s own guards, huge almost as trolls, wielding great swords that could cleave a man from crown to navel if he were fool enough to stand still for them, wearing thick armour of spiked black steel that even the the keen blade he bore, of Curufin’s forging, would not cleave it readily. But no armour was without a chink, and their size made them slow. Celegorm wove through their dark ranks like a dancer among trees, slashing at the joints of the harness, stabbing for the exposed throats and faces of his pursuers, and ever one inch ahead of the sweeping, stabbing blades that followed him. Once he was a hairs-breadth too slow, and the back-bent hooking end of a blade caught and tore into the flesh of his thigh, but the injury was too little to halt him. His goal, now, was not to slay all his opponents, though he would by no means regret so doing should the opportunity be granted, but to fight past them and reach their master. He ducked past the last of the great orcs, into an open door in the tower, whence they had doubtless issued, flung the door closed behind him, and bolted it. That would hold them for a little.

Panting, but grinning, he set his back to the wall beside the door, and took stock of his surroundings. He was in what seemed to be a guardhouse, which must have belonged to the regiment that had met him in the courtyard and was even now beating on the doors in confusion. Now it held only one orc, which had dropped the mug of something foul from which it must have been drinking, and stood staring at him as though paralysed with shock and fear. As he watched, it recovered enough to reach for its sword, foolishly set aside against the wall. A flick of his wrist, and the hilt of his hunting knife stood out of its throat. It fell without a sound. He spared a few moments after retrieving his knife to jam several of the tables that stood near against the barred door, which was beginning to splinter under the assault of the orcs outside, and then he darted into the corridors. He was inside Barad-Dur, and very near to the end of the greatest hunt of all his life.

Up and up he ran, past orcs and tortured slaves and rooms that held horrors none had ever before looked upon and left alive. The orcs he slew, the slaves, where he dared spare the time, he unchained, but never did he halt for long. If Thauron gathered enough of his people to overwhelm him by sheer force, he would fall with his hunt unfulfilled, and that he would not allow. Now more than ever he missed Huan, a faithful presence at his back in so many of his great hunts of the First Age, and his brothers too, who fought this same battle, yet were so far from him. Curufin, the wary shadow who had ever slunk in behind his daring charges with a swift and silent blade. The Ambarussar, whose prowess in the hunt rivalled even his own. Blunt Caranthir, who, though he might complain of their foolishness until the ending of the world, would never let his brothers come to harm. Maglor, all cool control in battle, his blows falling with the rhythm and grace of a song. Maedhros, scorching power and flame that could wither the orcs ere he even touched them, coupled with a swordsmanship unmatched by any save perhaps Fingolfin. 

He stepped back to avoid a swift, skilled slash from the latest in a long series of orcs — not quite swiftly enough. He winced as the orc-blade grazed his ribs, but a moment later he had hurled the wielder down the steps with its throat slit. Black blood dripped from both knife and sword as he stood before the tall doors of Thauron’s throne-room, and found that they stood open. "Thy legions and thy treachery have not halted me, Stinking One," he called out, soft and low and deadly. "The House of Fëanor seeks a reckoning."

And with that, he stepped into the high hall of the last and greatest lieutenant of Morgoth. All within was dark, save for a patch of lurid light which came in from the window which faced Orodruin, and cast its fiery light upon the throne of Thauron. There he sat, Gorthaur the Cruel of many names, and gazed out on the forge of his ancient power, and laid his snares of steel for the unwary world. Before him on a waist-high pillar of dark stone stood a _palantír,_ small enough to be held in two hands, and Celegorm knew it for his father’s work.

But it was Thauron himself who first drew the eye. He was very tall, taller than any man — had he stood on his feet, he would have towered even over Maedhros. Once, his face must have been very fair indeed: regular of feature, clear of eye, with level brows and well-formed bones. Now, the face’s clear ancient beauty made its ruin all the more hideous. On the left side, there was a single clear eye, baleful yellow, slitted like a cat’s, and ringed with orange fire that had singed the lid and brow. Skin like stretched parchment lay over a hideous skull, and cracked lips peeled back from stained and pointed teeth. The right eye was the blind white of a corpse, and the face on that side was withered like that of a man long-dead. The right arm, which missed its smallest finger, was likewise withered — seemed, in fact, the point from which all that corruption spread.

Celegorm swept his eyes over all, and strode towards throne and _palantír_ unhesitating. He sheathed his knife with his left hand, and felt in a pouch on his belt for something as he said, snarling, "Why, when I came here I thought to find a warrior, but you are even less whole than Maedhros." 

Then he held aloft the _palantír_ which he had drawn from his belt, and brought it down with savage force upon the _palantír_ which stood upon the plinth. "Á terhat," he cried aloud, and both stones shattered.

"A blind eye to match a blind eye," he said, raising his sword to the salute.

Slowly, Thauron rose from his seat. "Fool," he hissed in a voice like spitting poison, and Barad-Dur trembled with his wrath, and Orodruin belched fire as the cruel cat’s eye turned its gaze on Celegorm, who stood still unflinching beneath that evil gaze, sword unwavering. "Thou hast escaped my legions for a day, and thou believest thyself mighty enough to defeat me? Thy little skill hast stolen thy wits from thee."

_I know that I am not,_ Celegorm thought, but he curled his lip in affected scorn and said aloud, "That has yet to be seen, Stinking One."

Thauron snarled like a rabid dog, and lifted a long sword from where it rested beside his throne. The hilt was wrought with gold and fiery gems, and many runes of ancient power, long forgot by all save Thauron himself, were wrought on the blade, and they gleamed with sickening brightness in the ever-growing light of Mount Doom.

The light of Celegorm’s own blade seemed shadowed now, for they stood in the ancient fortress of Thauron’s power, and all other power must wane before it, and the runes that Curufin’s hand had carved flickered feebly in the gloom. Celegorm flung back his head and let slip his last hold over his own fire, for he would need every drop of his own power to stand here against Thauron’s corroding darkness. The light of the Trees, dimmed but unquenched, shone in his eyes as he sprang forward to the attack.

Thauron’s left-handed parry was swift and brutal, and it shook Celegorm’s arm to the shoulder. He was grateful for his many sparring matches against Maedhros the left-handed, for it did not throw him to fight against an opponent who wielded his blade thus. He sprang aside, towards Thauron’s weak side, and in that moment he found his foe’s weakness, for he was slow to turn when he must needs step on his withered foot. Swift as a striking snake, or a hunting-hound leaping for the kill, Celegorm’s long sword darted in and out, and scored a long cut down Thauron’s right arm.

The stroke that came in retaliation, when Thauron had regained his balance, nearly notched his blade with its sheer power. Before the next blow could beat down his defences further, Celegorm stepped backwards, out of his enemy’s long reach. Thauron at once stepped to the side, so that he stood between Celegorm and the door to the throne-room, cutting him off from escape. Had Celegorm meant to escape, it would have been a blow to his plans indeed. As it was, he saw only opportunity. He darted in to strike at his foe’s weak ankle as he moved, though he hardly had time to dodge the savage downward stroke that would have split him in two, and the back-cut caught the inside of his left arm and spattered red blood on the black stone of the floor. Nevertheless, his stroke, too, had gone home. Black blood hissed and steamed on the end of his blade, and Thauron limped as he walked forward, hammering at Celegorm’s defences with blow after blow, driving the Elf slowly backwards. 

Celegorm dodged and danced around his slower foe. Thrice, and again, and then a fifth time, he darted in to score a cut wherever Thauron’s defence could not come, then darted out again, beyond his enemy’s long reach, but his weariness was beginning to tell on him. His leg and rib and arm stung with sharp pain, and the blood was running freely down his left arm from just below the elbow, and that hand was weak. He dared not parry Thauron’s blows directly too often, lest his sword-arm be numbed or even broken by the sheer power of the blows, and so he must needs dodge and leap and trust to weary limbs to hold out a little longer. And still, despite his dodging and dancing, Thauron moved forward, and drove him backwards to an end he could not see and dared not spare the time to glance towards.

When his right foot brushed a stone step behind him, at first he thought he had reached the wall and could retreat no further. Then he realised that he stood at the foot of a great staircase, and that it was thither that Thauron had wished to drive him. For an ordinary opponent, it would have been a disadvantage to be driving his enemy up a staircase. For Thauron, tall as he was, it was not, for now Celegorm could not strike at his foe’s legs without exposing his back and head, but Thauron could strike at his. 

Thauron swung at his head with savage strength, and then, when he dodged aside, reversed the motion so that Celegorm must either retreat or parry. Celegorm drew back onto the first step. Thauron’s ravaged face twisted into a hideous smile, and his savage stab drove Celegorm’s parry aside and bit deep into his thigh where the orc’s blade had already cut.

Up and up the stairs they fought, Celegorm properly on the defensive now, and limping where Thauron had struck him in the leg. His left arm was all but useless, and the blood flowed freely from all his wounds, but still he fought on. He had no choice but to parry more than dodge, now, in the narrow confines of the staircase, and his whole arm ached with the force of the blows he must brace against — for Thauron, it seemed, did not tire, and Celegorm had been already weary when their duel began. Still, he smiled, for while Thauron fought against the one he thought to be the only intruder in his land, Frodo and Sam walked on towards Mount Doom, bearing with them his final and utter ruin.

When his reaching foot found flat ground rather than another step, Celegorm spared the barest glance about him, and saw that he stood upon the very top of Barad-Dur, between great spires of night-black rock, surrounded by flurrying clouds and smoke, and he understood Thauron’s plan. _Not just yet,_ he thought, still smiling, _for I have not equalled my uncle’s seven wounds!_ And so thinking, he stepped inside Thauron’s defences, and slashed first at the withered right wrist, then at the neck, and the keen blade went home each time. _Seven,_ he thought, and laughed breathlessly.

He had no time to spring clear of Thauron’s striking range before a brutal blow sent his sword spinning away, flying from nerveless fingers to clatter on the stone far beyond his reach. A moment later Thauron’s blade had buried itself to the hilt in his breast. 

Celegorm fell to his knees, hands clutching at the great wound in his breast. Then he looked up, bloodied teeth bared in one last defiant snarl, and spat through his coughing, "I am not defeated, craven. I will watch from the Halls of Mandos as thy maimed spirit passes wailing into the Void, and for thee there will be no returning."

Thauron roared his wrath, and lifted Celegorm by the throat. Celegorm’s desperate hands found his sheathed hunting-knife, and, in one last instant of strength, he drove it forward and upwards, and the short blade buried itself between Thauron’s ribs.

With a convulsive motion, the Dark Lord’s hand closed on Celegorm’s neck with a crack, and he flung the body of Celegorm Fëanorion, once called the Cruel, from the very height of the tower of Barad-Dur with a snarl.

And the trumpets sounded for him on the other side.

Standing amongst the bodies of many orcs in Gondor, Maedhros flinched as though he had received a wound, but though Eärendur looked worriedly at him, Maedhros cast the thought from him, for now was no time to wonder what might become of his brothers, any more than there was time to grieve if what he feared was true.

Far, far away, in the Halls of Mandos, a faithful hound sprang up in spirit to lick his master’s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am both sorry and not sorry for this chapter. Could I, perhaps, have wrangled the plot so that Celegorm walked away? Probably. Would I take this away from him? No. 
> 
> Quenya: Á terhat means "break!" or "shatter!"
> 
> Re Sauron and the physical body: nowhere in the books does it say he doesn't have one. The whole disembodied eye thing, while very visually effective, was Peter Jackson's idea, so I didn't feel compelled to follow it here. In fact, I believe it is likely in the books that Sauron does have a physical form still, albeit a hideously marred one.
> 
> Feel free to throw all your feelings at me in the comments.


	35. The Last Debate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn has arrived to the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, but there is still much to be done, and then there are decisions to make and news to gather.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Sorry for the week's delay; the muse was oddly recalcitrant about this chapter.

Down from the black ship sprang Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and at his side were Gimli son of Glóin, and Legolas Thranduilion, and behind him strode the sons of Elrond, and Amrod Fëanorion, and Halbarad of the Dunedain, and many stout men from Dol Amroth and Lebennin, and the dour-handed Rangers of the North. Down from the city marched Boromir and Maedhros, and behind them in many ranks came the men of Gondor. Up from the west came the soldiery of Rivendell with Lord Elrond at their head and Glorfindel of Gondolin singing beside them. Glad indeed was the meeting of Aragorn and Éomer, who hewed their way through many and many an orc ere they stood upon a green hill and leaned upon their swords and clasped hands, and turned back to the battle together rejoicing. 

The bold archers of Mirkwood, led by Amras and captained by Deryn, dashed in and out among the feet of the _mûmakil_ and sent their deadly arrows up toward the beasts’ eyes, and felled many of them. Back and back the black tide of Mordor was driven, beleaguered from three sides and cut off from escape. But the orcs fought like rats in a trap, and the men of the East were fierce in their despair, and again and again they rallied by burning barns and felled trees and smouldering hills, and gathered and fought and fell and fled and fought again, and so the day wore on.

Gandalf went out no longer to the field, for many were the wounded and weary who came to the Houses of Healing, and some of them lay under a strange fever which would not abate for all the efforts of the healers, and they called it the Black Breath, for it took root in those who had stood the longest against the Nazgûl. Upon Peregrin Took and Lady Éowyn of Rohan that malady lay most heavily. With Gandalf was Maglor, who had hardly gone to the battle at all save in the first charge, and he led a company of healers from Rivendell. "My brothers shall take heed to the slaying," he said to Gandalf, "and they have no need of me at present. I have seen enough of war. Let me turn my hand to the healing of hurts."

Even with Maglor’s aid, there was much work for Gandalf and the healers alike as the day wore on, for though the enemy was defeated, their desperation drove them on, and it was not until nightfall was near that the field of the Pelennor was cleansed at last. Some of the Men laid down their arms in the end, though few enough, for Sauron had told them of the cruelty of the men of Gondor to their prisoners, and they were astonished to be bound kindly and set in a secure place rather than tormented. Several companies of orcs that were nearest the river had chosen to take their chances even with the dreaded waters of Anduin rather than with the fell swords of Gondor and Rohan and Rivendell, and though many drowned many also escaped. Aragorn smiled when he heard it, to the messenger’s astonishment, and said, "Good! Let Sauron know what has become of his armies, and let him fear. A few companies of routed orcs need not concern us yet."

At last, as night fell, the last of the orcs were driven back from the field, and the warriors of many lands retired to the city, and the work of the healers began in earnest, and the work of the craftsmen also, for much of the first circle lay in ruins, and the fires had not wholly been put out. Many and glad were the meetings then, for Elrond met his sons and foster-son once more, and turned then to Maedhros and Maglor, and though all were nigh on weary beyond words, they had great joy of their reunion for all that, and even Curufin smiled. Then Lord Elrond, seeing that his arm lay in a sling, shepherded him towards the Houses of Healing, and all returned to their duties, for the time had not yet come for the telling of tales.

Aragorn and Elrond and Maglor and Gandalf went to and fro among the wounded, turning most often to those who suffered under the Black Breath, until it was nearly dawn and all those who were within reach of aid — and with such a company of healers, there were few who were not — were set on the path to health once more. Only then did they themselves rest, and Aragorn did so outside the city, as the captain of the Rangers only, and men wondered greatly, for he had set his banner and declared his heritage, and yet he would not enter the City uninvited.

Though there had been little sleep for any man, elf, or hobbit in the City the night after the battle, it had been agreed to call a council the next day, for though the battle for Minas Tirith was won, their very victory raised more questions which were in sore need of answers. One by one those who were called came up from house and tent and field and healers’ halls, climbing the streets of the White City to the Tower of Ecthelion that still stood tall and indomitable in the morning sun. Maglor, coming from the Houses of Healing, smiled, for as he had walked in the garden to see the sunrise, he had seen the Lady Éowyn and Captain Faramir speaking together, and he and the Healers were in accord in their hope that each of them might find healing with the other. 

And so it was that, on the morning after the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, at the third hour of the morning, there was such a gathering in the throne room of Minas Tirith as had not been seen or thought of since the mighty alliances of the First Age: for there was Aragorn, Heir of Isildur, and Boromir of Gondor his steward, Elrond of Rivendell and his sons, Glorfindel of Gondolin, Éomer King of Rohan and his esquire Meriadoc Brandybuck, Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, Mithrandir the Grey Pilgrim returned now in white, Legolas Thranduilion, Gimli son of Glóin, and, named last but not by any thought least, four of the mighty Sons of Fëanor. All were weary, and some still wore their battle-stained clothes, having worked through the night for the aid of the wounded and the safety of the city, but none could have mistaken them for any but the greatest lords of their age. Together they took counsel for what was best to be done, for all knew that though they had won a great victory, it was a battle only, and not the war.

"How is it with Gondor, my Lords Boromir and Maedhros?" Gandalf asked, first to speak. 

"Gondor has weathered this blow," Boromir said, "but she can weather no such again unless great powers come to us from the outlands or from our new-found allies. Nor, as matters now stand, can she send out any force of note to assault Sauron without sacrificing all safety of those who remain in this City."

"Aid comes even now from the Outlands," said Aragorn. "The Corsairs of Umbar are slain or driven away and their ships taken. Many of the folk of the sea-countries came with me upon the black ships, but more still will follow us: six thousands at the least. They will arrive ere the week is out, I deem. Angbor of Lamedon marches at their head with many stout captains."

"Your newfound allies will send aid also," Maedhros replied. "I have spoken to my brothers. The siege of Erebor is lifted, and Dol Guldor is thrown down. Mirkwood and the Lonely Mountain will both march to the help of Gondor, and right gladly."

"How many?" Boromir asked.

"Greenwood the Great is free of the Necromancer for the first time in an Age," said Legolas, "and though my father is slow to concern himself with the wars of the outer world, he does not deny that this is a war in which all must stand or fall together. Some thousands will come, though they cannot be here in less than seven days, and indeed it may be longer, for my people too have seen battle."

"The folk of Erebor will not be far behind them," Gimli added. "We owe you a great debt. And, more than that, it’s not the way of Dwarves to cease forging after the first hammer-blow. We’ll see this war through to whatever end. But they’re far away. A week’s march at least, as Legolas said."

"Then we can with safety hold this city for a great time, I deem," Maglor said, his clear voice hoarse from a day and night spent singing songs of healing, "or we may strike at what place we please: the Enemy will not have expected our victory, and his defences will be weak. The question is, which shall we do?"

Amrod looked up from the map over which he had been poring. "There is another question also," he said. "What of Celegorm and his charges? We have heard nothing of them since he farewelled Curufin before Ephel Duath."

"You said that your brother had been sent to scout out the borders of the Black Land," Éomer said. "Has he not returned?"

"He has not," said Curufin, his face grim. "Nor can we find him by his _palantír._ But there is more than that…" 

His voice trailed off, sounding suddenly unsure. It was Maedhros who took up the thought, and neither his face nor his voice betrayed any sign as he said, "It is not only that we cannot reach him through the _palantír._ Even a _palantír_ not in use may be found by a stone which is allied to it. We cannot find Celegorm’s."

"It takes great power to break a Seeing-Stone," Gandalf said.

"It does," Amrod agreed. "But any of us wields that power, should we wish to. The question is why he would do such a thing — and why his mind is now hidden from us."

"Hidden?" Imrahil asked.

"The _palantíri_ are not the only way by which the Eldar may look from mind to mind," Elrond said. "Among those who are closely allied in mind and strong in spirit, like the Fëanorions, they may not even be necessary over great distances."

"And yet we cannot find him," Curufin said angrily.

"Does this bode ill for Frodo and Sam?" Merry asked, speaking for the first time.

Éomer and Imrahil looked curiously at him, not knowing of whom he spoke, but Gandalf, seeing their curiosity, met their gazes and shook his head in warning, and they asked no questions. Maglor looked worriedly at Merry. "We do not know," he answered. 

"If Thauron had regained his Ring, we would know," Maedhros said, just as Aragorn said, "If Sauron had the Ring, we would know it."

Gandalf smiled at them under his beard, and also at the startled faces of Imrahil and Éomer, but said, "Quite right. Sauron does not have it. We must trust to all three of them now. Celegorm is wise in the ways of the wild, and Sam and Frodo are steadfast."

"We know that they are in Mordor," Amrod said. "If they had failed to cross the border and been captured, we would know; if they had failed in the crossing otherwise, Celegorm would find a way to tell us of it. We cannot cross the border ourselves to aid them. Indeed, we would do harm if we tried. That leaves us only two courses: either we can wait here, in the safety of the City, or we can ride out and meet the Enemy head on."

"I have spent all my life waiting behind walls for the battle to come to us," Boromir said. "I will do so no longer."

"Nor will I," Elrond added. "For two Ages of the World I have fought this war. Long have I hidden of necessity. Now that that war draws nigh to its ending, I will hide no more."

"Frodo and Sam cannot be found," Aragorn said, "and if they are, it bodes ruin for us all. Our best hope of aiding them is to keep the Enemy’s eye fixed on us and blind to all else that moves. I counsel that we ride out to meet him. But I am not yet King of Gondor, and there are many here who are no vassals of Gondor. I shall command no man to come with me."

"My King," Boromir said, "for you are so whether you claim the crown or no, Gondor has never prospered when she denied her rightful lord. Our people will follow you."

Elrond looked to Aragorn and smiled, and said, "My son, you know my mind on this already, but know also that I will not leave you to face this battle alone, even were it you and I only who marched forth."

"Even if we wished to stay behind, the House of Fëanor does not abandon its own," Maedhros said firmly, looking both at Elrond and Aragorn. "And our feud with Thauron is ancient and bitter. We ride with you, _indyo._"

"Well," said Gimli, "riding off to challenge the Enemy at his own gates to keep him distracted from a couple of hobbits. Nowhere I’d rather be!"

"Well spoken, Gimli Glóin’s son," said Maglor. "Though I would rather heal than wage war, I can say the same. Thauron has ever delighted in tormenting our family. I would see him fall."

"You are certain that he will fall?" Imrahil asked.

Boromir laughed. "Lord Maedhros alone held back the Nazgûl from the walls for nigh on three days, and through the night that the gates fell. If his brothers are in any way like him, I rejoice to think of what they may do to the Enemy’s gates."

"Right then," Merry said, with a brief, wry smile, "to battle."

"To battle," many voices echoed him.

Only three days later, a proud column of Elves and Men, five thousand horse and four thousand foot, marched out of the open archway that had once held the gates of Minas Tirith, and took its road to Mordor, even as the first of the men of the outlands marched in to the City’s rejoicing welcome, and Éowyn and Faramir watched from the wall of the Sixth Circle, as the wind caught in raven and golden hair and mingled them together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maedhros called Aragorn his grandson/descendant, in case you were wondering.
> 
> Also, a note to Ariana_El: I am terribly sorry but AO3 ate your comment on the last chapter somehow and I could not approve it. So I will say here, thank you for commenting, and I'm glad you're enjoying!


	36. Dagorlad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The great game of chess is played out to its last moves, on the very field where the Last Alliance once fought. Both sides have a few unexpected pieces in reserve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOTR now has its own playlist! Check it out at [The War of the Ring Playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6PFuuqnK6sJPTxIio7qOTC?si=8rfZ9U_nSK-DpbdyRLla3A), and please tell me what you think!
> 
> I would apologise for being late again, but this chapter needed the time (by which I mean that it had to be dragged into existence kicking and screaming until suddenly on Monday night the muse took over my brain and I wrote the entire chapter really late at night). Hopefully it's worth it.
> 
> Credit to Mr_Bultitude for beta and also assorted bits of description throughout the second half of the chapter.

The newly rebuilt bridge of Osgiliath now proved like to do as much harm to its orcish builders as it had ever done good, for it set a mighty army on its road to Mordor, where else it would have been much delayed by the crossing of Anduin. 

Smoke rose from the eastward half of ruined Osgiliath, and from much of the country round, for such of the orc-army as had found themselves held in reserve from the main assault had amused themselves by setting fire and destruction wherever they could, but the roads were clear, and the companies rode on. Later, should they succeed, there would be much time to rebuild and restore what was broken. Should their venture fail, it would not matter. 

It was four days’ riding to the Black Gate of Mordor. A company in great haste could have made it in three, perhaps, but the captains wished to arrive at the gate with a host ready to fight, not with one already weary. Their road took them near Minas Morgul, where all now was dark and quiet, the road’s glimmer reduced to the palest of shades, but the charnel-smell of the dead fields remained. It had been agreed already that, as Celegorm had taken the hobbits through the pass by Minas Morgul, it would be best not to draw the Enemy’s attention thither, and so, though the captains rode as far as the evil bridge, they did no more than set flames in the evil fields and depart.

So long as they rode through Ithilien, the country was fair, though wild, but towards the end of the second day, they rode out of the woods and into a barren land of blasted stone and straggling plants, with the Ephel Duath looming ominously over all. Mount Doom was belching forth smoke once more, and though the west wind blew it back from covering all the sky, yet the sun was dimmed, and many of the men were uneasy. Moreover, that day Legolas sighted strange birds circling far overhead — or birds he thought them, until a faint, bone-chilling cry was carried down by the wind. From then forth, though they made no more sound and stayed far out of bowshot, the Nazgûl followed their march relentlessly.

Few could sleep when they camped on the third night, for now the land through which they travelled was unnatural. Heaps of blasted rock seeped cloying smoke that lay low to the ground and caught in the throat, and oil-slicks lay at the bottom of deep pits on either side of the winding road. It has been some time since they passed the last of the trees, but now there were no plants at all, or birds or beasts. All was silent save for the tramp of their own marching feet. Smoke from Mount Doom still dimmed the sun’s rays to a weak, grey light, and the Nazgûl still hovered far overhead.

On the morning of the fourth day, the pale sunlight shone down onto the ash-grey stone of the Towers of the Teeth as the army of the new alliance rode and marched down the ancient way that led to the Black Gate, which stood tall and menacing and solid in that world of nightmare light and strange shapes.

Under the command of Eärendur of the Citadel Guard and Halbarad of the North and Imrahil of Dol Amroth, the soldiers of Gondor drew themselves up in array upon the right hand. The soldiers of Rivendell and Rohan did the same under the direction Erestor of Rivendell and Erkenbrand of the Mark. As archers, cavalry, and footmen drew themselves up in long and shining columns, there rode towards the Black Gate an embassy such as had never been seen before in all the long and storied history of Middle-Earth, nor would ever be seen again: for there rode Elrond of Rivendell with Glorfindel of Gondolin beside him, and Gandalf the White, and Éomer King of Rohan with Meriadoc Brandybuck of the Shire behind him, and Maglor son of Fëanor as herald, but before all was Aragorn Elessar of the line of Elendil, with Boromir the Steward of Gondor upon his left hand bearing the banner of the Tree and Stars, and Maedhros the One-Handed upon his right.

They halted just beyond arrow-shot from the walls, and Maglor’s clear voice rang out over the blackened plains. "Come forth!" he cried, and the walls re-echoed. "Let Thauron come forth! Justice shall be done upon him, for wrongfully hath he made war upon Numenor that was, and Gondor that is, and those he hath wronged demand that he atone for his evils, and then depart forever. Come forth!"

No answer came back from the grey walls: neither voice nor arrow gave any sign that aught lived beyond the walls of Mordor. Just as Aragorn lifted his reins to turn Roheryn and lead the embassy back to their own lines, there was a great ringing of hoarse trumpets from the walls, and slowly and silently the gates swung open, and there rode out a tall and evil shape, mounted on a black horse, if horse it was, for its face was a hideous mask, more like to a skull than a living face, and fire was in its eyes and the pits of its nostrils.

The rider was robed all in black, and black was his lofty helm, yet he was no Ringwraith, but a living man. How long he had been in the service of the Dark Tower none could say, least of all himself, for he was a Black Numenorean, one of those who had long ago fallen to the worship of Sauron, and now he had forgotten even his own name, and he said, "I am the Mouth of Sauron."

But none heeded him, for their eyes were fixed on that which was borne behind him, after the fashion of a standard, at the head of the company of black-harnessed soldiery which followed him. "So it is as I feared," Maedhros said softly from his place beside Aragorn, and his voice was low and thick with grief and rage as he looked upon the pale and bloodstained body of his brother, held aloft by the chains that bound him to a long pole.

And yet, for one who had died at the hands of Sauron, his body was strangely unmarked. His face could still be seen beneath the blood and dust-caked locks of once-bright hair, and it wore an expression of such peace that it might have been thought that he was sleeping rather than dead, were it not for the three wounds were on him, one at his left arm, and one at the leg, and last, which must have been the deathblow, a deep wound in his breast. Yet there were no more, and none seemed to have been struck after his death.

"Is there any in this rout with authority to treat with me?" the Mouth of Sauron asked mockingly. "Or even to understand me? The wisdom of the Elves is sorely diminished from its heights of yore, it seems, for this one came alone to the Great Tower of my master and thought that it would avail something other than to see him slain in torment. And thou, Elessar, are less even than they! It takes more to make a king than a piece of elvish glass." 

Aragorn said no word in answer to his taunts, but met his eye steadily, and laid a hand on his sword-hilt, and the Mouth of Sauron quavered and withdrew, saying, "I am a herald and ambassador, and may not be assailed!"

"Where such laws hold," Maedhros snarled, "it is the custom for ambassadors to use less insolence, and not to come bearing the slain kindred of those to whom they bring an embassy."

"Nevertheless," Gandalf said, "no one has threatened you, nor are you in any peril of us until your errand is done, though unless your master has come to new wisdom you are in great danger together with all his servants."

"Ye have to join your brother, have ye, sons of Fëanor?" the Mouth of Sauron sneered, paying no heed to Gandalf, though he had drawn new courage after the wizard’s speech. "Perhaps if ye had come sooner ye might have joined him alive, and all fallen together, and not left him to die with none but your pitiful little halfling spy for company."

With that he drew out, to the horror of the assembled company, the _mithril_ shirt that Frodo had worn and the short sword that belonged to Sam. Merry, seated behind Éomer, blanched but remained silent. "I was bidden to show thee these tokens, most especially thee, old greybeard," he said, turning to Gandalf, "and thee, meddling fool," turning to Maedhros, "who hast ever led thy allies most cunningly into the traps set by my master that they might die for thee there. Dost thou deny them?"

"I do not wish to deny them," Gandalf replied, "and I know them and all their history, and despite your scorn, foul Mouth of Sauron, you cannot say as much. But why do you bring them here?"

"Elf-coat, blade of the downfallen West, spy from the little rat-land of the Shire — nay, do not start! We know it well — here are the marks of a conspiracy! Now, maybe he who bore these things was a creature you would not grieve to lose, and maybe otherwise: one dear to you, perhaps? If so, take swift counsel with what little wit is left to you. For Sauron does not love spies, and what his fate shall be now depends upon your choice."

No one answered them, but he saw their faces grey with fear and the horror in their eyes, and he laughed, for it seemed to him that now his sport went well. "Good, good," he said. "He was dear to you, I see, or perhaps his errand was one which you did not wish to fail. It has. And now he shall endure the slow torment of years, as long and slow as our arts in the Great Tower can contrive, and never to be released, unless maybe when he is changed and broken, so that he may come to you, and you shall see what you have done. This shall surely be unless you accept my Lord’s terms."

Gandalf opened his mouth and would have answered, but Maglor spoke first, and gone was the clarion silver of his voice, replaced with rage and keen-edged blades. "We shall take no terms from Thauron, faithless and accursed! Get thee gone, for thy embassy is ended and death is near thee!"

The messenger reeled back, as a beast that is smitten on the muzzle with a stinging rod even as it nears its prey, and Gandalf sprang forward, a light issuing from his upraised hand, and seized upon the _mithril_ coat and sword. "These we shall take, in memory of our friend," he said in a great voice, "but as for thy terms, we reject them utterly. Begone!"

The messenger of Mordor recoiled from the flame of his face, and though his wrath burned hot, his fear rose like a smoke to choke it when he looked upon the fell faces of the Captains of the West. Turning, he rode back pell-mell towards the gate, and his company followed with their grim standard. But as they rode his soldiers blew their horns in signal long arranged, and ere they had even reached the gate, Sauron sprung his trap. Out of the gate and down from the mountains beside it there poured a horde of orcs and trolls, boiling out of the deep-bored rock like ants from a hill, and they swept forward towards the host of the West like a tide. 

Back rode the Captains of the West, back before the onrushing hosts, and as they galloped they heard a sudden music of horns blowing — shrill, wild horns of the Easterlings, ringing wildly from the north. Turning towards this new threat, they thought to see yet another host, and saw instead a small company on horseback. At its head rode Caranthir, with Glóin holding tight behind him, and at his back was a motley company of horsemen, some in the light armour and pale cloaks of the Easterlings, some clad in bright mail carrying long bows.

The first ranks of orcs already stood between Caranthir and his embattled allies, but his pace did not so much as slacken as he and his company rode down their foes, halting beside the embassy. One of the green-hooded archers flung back his hood, and the pale sunlight glinted like fire in Amras’ bright hair as he sent his first arrows flying towards the endless ranks of orcs.

"Well met, my brothers!" Caranthir cried, as Glóin scrambled down from his horse in haste to join the footmen, grumbling about riding and axes. 

As Gimli strode out to greet his father, Maedhros gazed on Caranthir’s band of allies with a wary look in his eyes, and then turned to Caranthir himself in wordless enquiry. Caranthir gave him a brief nod of reassurance, as though to say, _This will be no second Nirnaeth Arnoediad. They are faithful men._

Then the first rank of orcs was upon them, rallying before their grim standard. Gandalf’s staff gleamed brightly as he rode to join the cavalry of Rohan. The breeze caught the banner of the Tree and Stars, planted firmly upon the southern hill, and blew it wide as Aragorn and Boromir drew their swords. But before them all stood the sons of Fëanor, all who remained, on foot, their swords drawn, an immovable bulwark between friend and foe. 

The tide of orcs broke and parted upon their swords like water on rock, and orcs and men alike reeled back from them in amaze, for they looked upon a sight that none living in Middle-Earth had ever seen before. White fire flickered about the six like a shield of flame, centred on Maedhros, whose sword sparked and leapt and flickered as though it was itself wrought of living fire. Maglor’s voice was uplifted in a song that set strength and courage in the heart of every Man and Elf who heard it, but the orcs recoiled shrieking from his clear singing. Amras loosed arrow after arrow, each seemingly tipped with the same white fire, and none failed to find a mark. Amrod stalked to and fro like a hunting wolf, still wielding his blade left-handed, flanking Caranthir, who stood a little apart, feet planted like a mountain, laying about him with the great black axe that slew as much by its very weight as by its edge. Curufin stood beside Maglor, and his every stroke found a weakness in his foe’s armour, and none could have said whether he snarled or smiled. The selfsame word was on all their lips as they fought — and that was the name of their brother, as they cut their way towards the orcs that bore his body aloft.

"You would think," Curufin laughed between blows, "that Thauron would find something better than this rabble to send out after his fiercest foes. How the mighty have fallen!"

All save Maedhros laughed in agreement. He alone looked about for the next step of the trap, and seeing nothing, was uneasy.

"Think they’ll leave any for us?" Gimli asked Legolas, who had dismounted as well, the better to fight beside his friend, and was sending his own arrows thick and fast at the oncoming orcs.

"I won’t complain if they don’t," Merry said, for he too had dismounted and sought out his old companions, not wishing to risk another fall in the midst of battle.

"I will," Legolas retorted. "Gimli and I have not yet finished our game."

"You only say that because I’m ahead."

Then the trumpets rang out from the Black Gate once more, a hoarse, deep-throated bellow, and a great, shadow-shrouded figure, clad in dark, jagged armour that glowed with unholy runes, stepped out from the dark portal. Fear and chill and darkness spread over the battlefield like a falling rain, and Maedhros’ white flames flickered, dimmed, and went out. Maglor’s song faltered, and Caranthir’s axe rested from its slaying. Gandalf’s face blanched to the colour of his robes, and the light of his staff likewise faltered and faded. Aragorn’s hand slackened on his sword-hilt, and Legolas’ bow no longer sang. A dead silence fell over the field, and Sauron, flanked by all that remained of his Nazgûl, set foot on the field of battle for the first time in an age.

Not since the Last Alliance had pursued his forces into the land of Mordor itself had any Man, Elf, Dwarf, or Wizard seen the Dark Lord, save those unfortunates whom he took and tortured within his own domains, never to release them. Those of the folk of Rivendell who recalled the terrible battle of Gorgoroth that ended the Second Age halted dead. Some never moved again, for with a roar like the sea in wrath the orcs sprang forward, hands strengthened and hearts quickened by the presence of their master. He no longer wielded the Ring, but he was himself still, and his power was very great: once called Mairon, mighty among the servants of Aulë, then called Gorthaur the Cruel, greatest of Morgoth’s lieutenants, slayer of Finrod, terror of Tol-in-Gaurhoth and Dol Guldor. For long millennia he had lain in wait, gathering all his power, and now he strode forth, and the cold and dark that followed him seemed to draw the heat and light from the very sky and air.

Though the Nazgûl that flanked him were fewer in number now than they had been, they, too, seemed to draw strength from their master, and their rings glowed darkly on mailed hands as they raised their long swords to a mocking salute. Above them the fell beasts circled, riderless, their harsh cries splitting the air, ready to sweep down upon the defenders like hawks upon their prey. Behind them strode a guard of cave trolls, in spiked armour, bearing great hammers that would crush a man at a blow. Maedhros leaned heavily on his sword, weariness seeming to settle itself on his shoulders like a cloak. Looking to his brothers, he read in their eyes the same thought that had come to him: _We may join Celegorm soon._

An arrow was loosed towards Sauron by some archer either braver or more foolish than the rest, and all eyes saw the frost gather about it as it flew, until it shattered into splinters when it struck his armour.

Nevertheless, that one gesture of defiance against the oncoming dark broke the spell. All across the field, men lifted their weapons once more and braced for the onslaught. Gandalf raced forward to stand beside the sons of Fëanor, and they made a place for him on Maedhros’ right hand, as Glamdring glowed a blue so bright that it seemed as though all the stars in the sky had come down to shine together against Sauron’s darkness. The dark and cold did not fade, but, as though kindled by Glamdring’s starlight, fire roared up to meet it as first Curufin, then Maedhros, and then all the brothers began to laugh. It was so startling a sound on that field of dread that it struck the onlookers with silence as well or better than the trumpets had done when they brayed out Sauron’s arrival. Then, blades raised, they charged forward, and Sauron, too, laughed aloud, a sound like the sliding of stone.

Sauron and his Nazgûl strode on to meet them, inexorable as death — but Sauron limped, and the brothers’ laughter grew louder to see it. Their clash was like the meeting of two great thunderstorms in wrath, or like a forest-fire hurling itself in defiance at a great river, and the shock of it hurled many to the ground on either side. Maedhros took the full force of Sauron’s blade on his own, and Gandalf stabbed forward with Glamdring as, with Celegorm’s name on their lips, his brothers sprang towards the Nazgûl and trolls.

Down swept the fell beasts from the sky as Aragorn and Boromir regained their feet, ready to spring to the aid of the Fëanorions, and as they hurled themselves to the ground to escape the blast of foul air, the press of battle swept them back from the centre of the field where it seemed as though a storm had sprung out of the ground. Light flashed, white and red and gold, and dark mists twined around it like poisonous vines, dimming its brilliance and stifling its warmth. Wind whipped and shrieked like a living thing, and sometimes it sang with Maglor’s voice. Ever and anon, the ground shook as blades and wills collided with more than human force. Even Sauron’s forces, though they rejoiced in his presence, kept well back from the fierce conflict before them, for it seemed to be more a battle of nature than of blades, for all that the bright flicker of steel could often be seen through the mists and lights.

Meanwhile, to either side, fierce battle was raging. The archers sent hails of arrows towards the riderless fell beasts and the oncoming ranks of orcs as spearmen braced to face the great mountain-trolls and the swordsmen saw to it that the orcs which escaped the arrows met their end. Elrond and his sons stood upon one side, with the folk of Rohan and Rivendell, and Glorfindel was beside him, for he had had no chance in the press of battle to join with the sons of Fëanor as they faced Sauron. They turned their wrath upon the orcs instead, faces stern and fell as they dealt slaughter together. Upon the other side stood the King of Gondor and his Steward, and orcs fled from their faces and died wailing upon the swords of the men of the West, or caught into the conflagration of powers, burnt, frozen, and crushed.

Nevertheless there seemed to be no end of orcs, though the ranks of the trolls were thinning, and the fell-beasts, with every strike, tore great holes in the ranks of the defenders, through which orcs poured like foul swamp-water. "Where in Middle-Earth or out of it does he get all of these orcs? No matter how many we kill, there’s always another army of them ready and waiting," Glóin asked irritably of the air, wrenching his axe out of an orc-skull and scowling at it.

"I think it is better for us all not to think too deeply on that," Legolas shouted over his shoulder, sending another arrow towards a fell-beast that had been unwise enough to come within his range. 

The creatures must have been struck many times, for they were by no means small targets and there were many archers present, but no arrow had yet dealt a fatal blow, and Legolas began to wonder if they bore some armour, or if, like the _mûmakil,_ their hide was simply impervious to arrows. Nevertheless, they seemed to avoid archers where they could, and so he went on sending arrow after arrow towards them, if only to keep them a little further from himself and his friends.

The elves of Mirkwood who had ridden with Amras had formed up on him, as he was the son of their King, and the men of the East had come with them, unsure of their place in the rest of the army, and were doing good work among the orcs with their short bows and long, curving swords, though it seemed that they were better kitted out to fight on horseback than afoot. There had been no time to ask their names, but he had caught a few words as they called to each other over the battlefield, and wondered greatly how people of so strange a speech had come to ride with Caranthir Fëanorion. If he lived out the day, he had many questions for them, but that was growing less likely with every plunge of the fell-beasts and every new orc that came boiling out of the countless tunnels bored into the Ephel Duath beside the Towers of the Teeth.

Then there was a yell from a little way off, in the voice of a hobbit, and he listened at once. Rather than what he had half-expected, a call for help — for however doughty he might be as a warrior, Meriadoc had neither the height of Men nor the stone-like strength of Dwarves — he heard a shout of triumph. "The Eagles are coming! The Eagles are coming!"

Looking to the sky, he saw new shapes, bearing down out of the west with the speed of the wind in sky-borne phalanx after phalanx, as though Manwë himself had summoned armies to the aid of the Captains of the West. With shrill cries, they hurled themselves upon the fell-beasts, beaks snapping and talons tearing, and battle was joined in the skies as well as on the earth. Legolas turned from the battle which he could not aid to the battle he could, and drew his knives with a grim smile, for now the orcs were too near for archery, and there were trolls with them that did not heed arrows. _And yet,_ he thought, sparing a glance to the Men and Elves and Dwarves at his back, and then to the maelstrom of light and dark that lay before him, _if this is to be my death, fighting with these friends, against these foes, I would have no other._ "Forty-seven!" he shouted over his shoulder, as his blades tasted blood for the first time, and was rewarded with a dwarvish grumble from his right.

Caranthir coughed as he picked himself up off of the ground. One of Thauron’s pet trolls had gotten in a glancing blow on his ribs, which had still hurled him nearly four paces backwards and left him winded on the ground, not to mention that he had nearly knocked Amrod over in the process. At least he had not lost hold of his axe. Small mercies. The rest of Thauron’s forces seemed content to give them a wide berth, as well, which had doubtless saved his life just now, though he could hardly blame them. Gandalf and Maedhros working together were masters of fire and light, but when faced with such an enemy as this and forced to drive their power to the limits, neither of them had either the time or mind to keep their flames close. He was fairly sure that more than one unfortunate orc had come too close to them and simply fallen to dust, consumed by the flames. Thauron must have been putting his own will into the trolls, too, or they would have burned by now. 

He scrambled to his feet and pushed aside the pain. There would be time for that later, if they lived through the day. One of the Nazgûl was stalking around the edges of the battle, and, without Caranthir beside him, Amrod was in danger of being flanked. Amras, too, had seen it, but he was further off — too far. Caranthir hurled himself forward with a roar, axe held aloft, as the Nazgûl raised its sword for the blow that would cripple his brother. The axe fell, whistling through the air, and its keen edge found a mark, cleaving through the unseen sinews. The Nazgûl shrieked aloud as its left arm fell to the ground, so much empty armour, but it clung still to its sword with the right, and Amrod’s desperate parry only just deflected its savage thrust. Caranthir brought his axe around at the same instant that Amrod disengaged his blade and sprang forward. A sword in its throat and its helm cloven to the teeth, the wraith fell with a terrible wail, but as Caranthir wrenched his axe out of the twisted ruins of its helm, he saw that the one edge was shattered, and felt cold creeping up his arms from the haft. 

There was another roar and a crash to his left, and he saw that Mithrandir, aided by Curufin, had felled another pair of trolls before they could reach Maglor, who sang on still even as his sword danced, a song of defiance and laughter in the very face of death. It was his song as much as Maedhros’ and Mithrandir’s fire that still held the Nazgûl at bay — for they were busy with Thauron — but Mithrandir’s detour had come at the price of leaving Maedhros to face Thauron alone. Were his brother’s life not in peril, Caranthir would have stopped to gaze in awe at what he saw. Though darkness and flames still writhed in endless battle about them, his brother and his greatest foe had set aside the war of _fëar_ now for the war of blades, and such a sight had never been seen before, he thought, even when Fingolfin faced Morgoth before the fortress of Angband long ago. For Thauron, though both taller and slower than Maedhros, hampered by what seemed to be ancient wounds, _or, perhaps, less ancient,_ he thought, remembering Celegorm, his skill with a blade was nigh unmatched. He wielded a great sword left-handed, that would have taken two men to lift, even had they been able to endure its touch, forged as it was with necromancy as much as with the craft of hammers, and he was stronger than any troll, but his blows were as quick as they were mighty.

Nigh unmatched, Caranthir had thought, for there was one there who could match him. Maedhros’ sword flashed like lightning in the deadly dance of battle, and for every stroke of Thauron’s he returned a stroke of his own. No instant of motion was wasted, no drop of strength spent without need. Flickering fire against falling stone, flashing lightning against the cloying night: in and out his blade darted, swifter even than Elvish eyes could follow, up and down and around Thauron’s as he danced forward and back, dodging aside from the fiercer blows and always, always, taking back the offensive, forcing Thauron to focus on him and him only as Gandalf and his brothers held the line against the Nazgûl and trolls. Though they had felled a Nazgûl now, and more than one troll, the darkness that swirled around them like oil did not abate, and the strength of their slain foes seemed to find its way into the limbs of those who remained. "Necromancer," Caranthir spat, for indeed there was no other word for the foul craft which was at work here.

Neither had it escaped his notice that none of them, not even Mithrandir, was unhurt, or that they were slowly, slowly, being forced back towards the defenders’ lines.

Maedhros knew, with the infinitesimal part of him that was not wholly immersed in the split-second trading of deadly blows, any of which, not parried, would kill or cripple, that he could not keep on with this forever. Though his skill was a match for Thauron’s, and more — and if he had time to do anything save parry and strike, strike and dodge and leap and parry again, he would laugh for very joy at that — his power was not. If he wished to land any blow worth more than a cut against Thauron, armoured as his foe was, he must take one himself, and that he could not afford, and so still their blades whirled and sparked and danced and no strikes landed, and his arms were beginning to weary. Slowly, slowly, like quicksand swallowing a stone, or the sea quenching fire, Thauron’s darkness whelmed his flames. The lights that were his brothers, even Mithrandir, were dimming, and though trolls and Nazgûl alike fell before them, the darkness still grew. Thauron’s power was growing towards its height like a cresting wave looming over land and sea. He knew, that if there was power to withstand him anywhere in Middle-Earth, it was here. He knew also that it might not be enough. Perhaps Thauron alone, without the trolls and Nazgûl, they could have faced, but with the Ring-bound shades to chill his fire and the trolls to beat down his brothers, he was being forced backwards, inch by inch and yard by yard. 

Then Gandalf was beside him again, and Glamdring’s shining blade caught Thauron at the joint of the armour, and for a moment as the Dark Lord roared his pain they had a respite, but then the Nazgûl were on them again, and Thauron only a moment after. Behind him, his brothers stood back-to-back as the trolls circled them and beat upon their defences with heavy hammers. Maglor’s song faltered, and Amrod stumbled back with a cry as a Nazgûl’s blade caught his arm where the burns that the Balrog had left were still not wholly healed. Amras brought his hand up for an arrow and found his quiver empty. A troll brought its hammer crashing down on Glamdring, knocking the blade aside, and Thauron brought his sword down on Maedhros’ with undiminished force, and shook Maedhros’ arm to the shoulder. In that instant, Maedhros had just time to think, with the strange clarity that comes only in moments of great need, _So this is how we fall. May Frodo and Sam find their way,_ as Thauron’s blade came up again and he knew that he could not parry another such blow, and that he could not spring aside without leaving his brothers open to attack.

But the blow never fell. Even as Thauron’s sword began its deadly descent, he froze, and all his host with him, like trolls turned to stone by the sudden sunrise, and his blade seemed to stick in the air.

Then he _screamed,_ a scream to rend the very skies. The earth shook. The Towers of the Teeth shattered like glass and the black gates that stood between them fell with what should have been an earth-shattering clang, but it could not be heard over the drawn-out wail of Thauron’s last agony, joined by the fell voices of the Nazgûl which now held no more power to chill. There were no words in that cry, nothing but pain and fear and rage. Maedhros dropped his blade and covered one ear with his hand as best he could, vaguely knowing that all about him his brothers and the men of Gondor and the orcs were all doing the same. He felt, more than saw, Barad-Dur sway, waver, and finally crumble, like a sand-castle washed away by the incoming tide.

How long this lasted none could later say, but at last, as suddenly as it began, it ended. An empty suit of black adamantine armour, spiked and scored about with evil runes which glowed no more, fell to the earth with a final thud. The darkness and cold faded from the field, and the sun shone down bright and golden and warm. What remained of Thauron’s army stared about them at the field for a moment, dumbfounded, before their lines broke. Trolls froze, turned to stone in the sudden sunshine. The fell-beasts fell from the sky, rent by the eagles’ talons. Orcs trampled one another down in their blind panic, and screamed as they fled in faint echoes of their dead master. The battle was over, at last. Three Ages of the world, uncounted deaths, nine returns to life, the shape of the world changed — and now it was over. Maedhros fell to his knees, not knowing if it was for weariness or joy or sorrow.

Further off still than the falling Barad-Dur, there was a flash of dire red light, and Gandalf knew that Mount Doom was answering to its master’s will one last time. "Gwaihir!" he cried to the skies, and the great eagle swept down. "Gwaihir, my friend, if you will carry me one last time, we have much need of haste. There are those we love who may still be within the borders of the Black Land, I fear."

"Gladly will I carry you, Mithrandir, to the world’s ending and beyond, for this victory would not have come to pass without you."

Gandalf leapt upon the great eagle’s wide back. In a moment they were aloft. At a word from Gandalf, Gwaihir gave a shrill cry, and two more eagles, young and swift of wing, joined them, and together they sped with all haste towards the burning mountain.

Merry gazed around at what had so lately been a battlefield, as all the creatures of Sauron that still lived turned and fled pell-mell, heedless of direction, mindless, like a swarm of ants when their hill is smitten, and shouted aloud for joy, "Frodo! Frodo! He’s done it!" And many took up the cry, though few knew what it meant, and Frodo’s name echoed over the field. 

Legolas and Gimli looked up from arguing over their game to join in the joyful shouting, but their faces grew solemn when they saw the glowing mountain hurl fire to the skies. Nothing could live for long in such a flaming wasteland. 

Maedhros rose wearily to his feet, leaning on Curufin’s shoulder, and the two of them gazed at Mount Doom as their brothers came to stand beside them, followed by Aragorn and Boromir, and shortly afterwards Elrond. Together they stood in silence as all around them men laughed and cheered and embraced one another, looking towards the exploding mountain, hoping against hope that Gandalf would be in time. Long minutes passed, and a stillness fell even on those who did not know of the reason for Gandalf’s errand, until three eagles were espied. As they drew nearer, it could be seen that they bore one wizard, and two singed and weary but very much alive hobbits. The first great bird landed and set Gandalf upon his feet, but the other two, after circling once overhead, set their wings westward, towards Gondor and the houses of healing.

And Gandalf cried aloud, "All ye men of the West, rejoice, for your foe is slain and your war is ended! Sauron’s Ring is destroyed, and his power utterly shattered, and he shall never rise again, but will forever be a spirit of malice gnawing at himself in the shadows, powerless. Rejoice, for we have conquered and the world shall be clean once more."

Shouts of joy went up from around the field once more, but there was no time to hold such a celebration as the victory deserved — not then. Joy mingled with grief, neither diminishing the other, but each finding new depth and meaning, as those who were whole and living sought out the wounded to heal them and the dead to give them the honours they deserved. 

Near what had once been the gates of Mordor, they found Celegorm, lying at rest upon a stone where he had been cast in carelessness by the fleeing orcs. His brothers bowed low before him as one before Maedhros advanced to free him of his shackles and take him up in his arms, bending down to kiss his brother’s peaceful brow. "Well," said Caranthir softly as Maedhros rose to his feet, "this time he has outdone us all. We know by whom Thauron was lamed."

"He has outdone us indeed," Curufin answered. "He has atoned."

Maedhros looked about at his brothers, and smiled upon them, an expression of such peace as they had not seen upon his face since Valinor. "We have all atoned," he said. "Can you not feel it? The weight is lifted at last. We are forgiven."

They stood still for a moment, each taking in the truth that rang in his words. Then Maglor spoke. "Let us join our friends."

As they walked, he sang softly, a song of mingled joy and sorrow that only his brethren heard, and their hearts sang with him. They fell into step on either side of Maedhros as he bore Celegorm towards the place set aside for the dead, and Elves and Men parted before them in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it, folks: the climactic chapter! We're easing into the denouement now, and the next four chapters (I think it will be four, but what do I know) will wrap everything up.


	37. Seven Stars and Seven Stones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victory is celebrated and valour honoured, and old grievances are laid to rest at the opening of a new Age.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, I'm horribly late. But hopefully this chapter is worth the wait!

The first thing Frodo knew was that there was light. The second was that somewhere outside his window, birds were singing. He opened his eyes, and found that he was in a white-ceilinged room with sunlight streaming in through the windows from what looked to be the garden outside. A cool breeze bore with it the smell of herbs and clean air. But the sound of birds and the scent of herbs were not all that occupied his room. Seated in an armchair within reach of the bed was a figure he had not seen since shortly after he had left Rivendell. Maedhros the One-Handed looked down on him, and serenity sat on his brow. 

Frodo rose slowly into a sitting position as the elf looked on. Though he had never been here before, he knew that he was in the city of Minas Tirith, but that left the two most important questions unanswered. Before he could ask, Maedhros smiled and spoke. "Your Sam is here and well. He still sleeps in the other bed. You have been here some three days, tended by Aragorn himself. I am glad to see you awake. All Gondor now awaits your presence, and that of Sam." He broke off and looked aside, then added, "I see that he is eager to join us." 

And indeed, a rustling sound told Frodo that someone else was waking. But ere he could turn to Sam, the door opened, and he turned and saw Gandalf in the doorway, clad all in gleaming white and leaning on a white staff. "Gandalf?" he asked in wonder, for when the wizard had not rejoined them in their desperate flight from Isengard he and Sam and Curufin all alike had given him up for lost. "I thought you were dead — but then I thought I was dead myself. Is everything sad going to come untrue?" 

And he looked behind Gandalf, as though behind him he might see the figure of Celegorm, laughing in the new sunlight. Behind him, Sam sat up with a gasp of, "Mr. Frodo! What’s happened?"

"A great shadow has departed," said Gandalf in answer to both of them, "but alas, the griefs of the world will not be undone. Mine is a tale that shall be told in its time, but that time is not now."

"Neither is now a time of mourning," said Maedhros gently. "Thauron is fallen, and Gondor stands, and her King has returned. He awaits you both now, without the city, if you are ready."

Frodo got to his feet, and found that he felt better than he remembered ever feeling. "I think I am," he said, "but what shall I wear?"

For he saw laid out before him only the burnt and tattered clothes that he and Sam had worn in Mordor.

"The clothes of your journey," Maedhros replied. "There is no livery more honourable, not though it were woven by the hand of Miriel the Broideress."

"But perhaps after I shall find some other clothes," Gandalf added with a smile.

When they were washed and clad, Gandalf and Maedhros led them down the long way from the Sixth Circle of the City, where they had resided in the Houses of Healing, to the great arch of the Gate of the First Circle. No gate closed it now, but there was a barrier across it, before which stood Húrin of the Keys, and Boromir the Steward with Faramir his brother, and Lady Éowyn of the Mark with Elfhelm the Marshall and many knights of Rohan, and Merry and Pippin, too, clad in livery of Gondor and of the Mark, to Frodo and Sam’s great wonder. But they had no time to ask what had befallen their cousins, for Húrin of the Keys drew back the barrier as they approached. To his wonder, Frodo and Sam found that Maedhros and Gandalf had fallen back to walk a little behind them, after the manner of guards or soldiers following their general. As they stepped through the opening in the barrier, they were surprised to see knights in bright mail and tall guards in silver and black standing there, who greeted them with honour and bowed before them. And then one blew a long trumpet, and the crowd parted before them leaving a clear way out into the field, and they walked on through the ranks and companies of a great host that glittered in the sun. And as the Hobbits approached swords were unsheathed, and spears were shaken, and horns and trumpets sang, and men cried with many voices and in many tongues:

_’Long live the Halflings! Praise them with great praise!  
Cuio i Pheriain anann! Aglar 'ni Pheriannath!  
Praise them with great praise, Frodo and Samwise!  
Daur a Berhael, Conin en Annûn! Eglerio!  
Praise them!  
Eglerio!  
A laita te, laita te! Andave laituvalmet!  
Praise them!  
Cormacolindor, a laita tárienna!  
Praise them! The Ring-bearers, praise them with great praise!’_

And so with the red blood blushing in their faces and their eyes shining with wonder, Frodo and Sam went forward and saw that a little way down from the gate were set seven high seats built of green turves. Behind each floated a banner: one bore a white horse on green, running free, one a swan-prowed ship faring on the sea, one a golden tree upon a silver field, one a single great star, its rays curiously twined about its centre, set upon a starry ground, one an eight-pointed star of flame gleaming against a black ground with its long, swirling rays reaching to the very edge of the flag, one pure white without any device; but behind the highest throne in the midst of all a great standard was spread in the breeze, and there a white tree glittered upon a sable field beneath a shining crown and seven glittering stars. On the throne sat a man clad in black mail girt with silver, who bore a mantle of pure white clasped at the throat with a green stone that shone brightly in the sunlight, and a star upon his brow bound with a fillet of silver. A great sword was laid across his knees. As they drew near he rose. And then they knew him, changed as he was, so high and glad of face, kingly, lord of Men, dark-haired with eyes of grey.

Frodo ran to meet him, and Sam followed close behind. As they neared, to Sam’s surprise and utter confusion, he bowed his knee before them, and taking them by the hand, Frodo upon his right and Sam upon his left, he led them to the throne, and setting them upon it, he turned to the men and captains who stood by and spoke, so that his voice rang over all the host, crying: "Praise them with great praise!"

Then, when the final glad shout had swelled and died away again, a single trumpet rang, and a dead silence followed. Aragorn began to walk slowly towards the gate. Gently, Maedhros and Gandalf nudged Frodo and Sam forward, and Merry and Pippin took up places upon either side of them, and they fell into step a little behind Aragorn, wondering much what might be happening when the Sons of Elrond joined them in their slow march. Some hundred paces from the gate, Aragorn halted, and the Dúnedain, all clad in silver and grey, drew themselves up about him like a guard of honour. 

Then Boromir, and Húrin of the Keys, and four knights of Gondor bearing a great casket of black _lebethron_ bound with silver, all strode forth from the gate to meet them. And the King of Gondor stood in the road and looked upon his Steward, and the Steward looked upon the King, and both were glad. Then Boromir spoke in a clear voice, "Men of Gondor, hear now the Steward of this Realm! Behold, one has returned to us out of the deep past to claim the kingship: Aragorn, son of Arathorn, chieftain of the Dúnedain of Arnor, Captain of the Host of the West, bearer of the Star of the North, wielder of the Sword of Elendil reforged, victorious in battle, whose hands bring healing, the Elfstone, Elessar of the line of Valandil Isildur’s son Elendil’s son of Númenor. Shall he be king and enter into the City and dwell there?"

And all the host and all the people cried _yea_ with one voice.

Then Boromir spoke again, "It is said that of old in this City, it was the custom that the king should receive the crown from his father ere he died, or if that might not be, that he should go alone and take it from the hands of his father in the tomb where he was laid. But now things must be done otherwise, for the father of our King is long laid to rest in another land. And so I have bidden the crown of Eärnur the Last King, whose days passed in the time of our longfathers of old, to be brought forth from Rath Dínen."

Then the guards stepped forward, and Boromir opened the casket, and he held up an ancient crown. It was shaped like the helms of the Guards of the Citadel, save that it was loftier, and it was all white, and the wings at either side were wrought of pearl and silver in the likeness of the wings of a sea-bird, for it was the emblem of kings who came over the Sea; and seven gems of adamant were set in the circlet, and upon its summit was set a single jewel the light of which went up like a flame.

Then Aragorn took the crown and held it up and said: _Et Eärello utúlien. Sinome maruvan ar Hildinyar tenn’ Ambar-metta!_

And those were the words that Elendil spoke when he came up out of the Sea on the wings of the wind: "Out of the Great Sea to Middle-Earth I am come. In this place will I abide, and my heirs, unto the ending of the world."

Then to the wonder of many Aragorn did not put the crown upon his head, but gave it back to Boromir, and said: "By the labour and valour of many I have come into my inheritance. In token of this I would have the Ring-bearer bring the crown to me, and let Maedhros set it upon my head, if he will; for he has been the mover of all that has been accomplished, and this is his victory."

Then Frodo came forward and took the crown from Boromir and bore it to Maedhros; and Aragorn knelt, and Maedhros set the White Crown upon his head, and laid his hand upon it, and said: "There is a King in Middle-Earth once again. Varda, look with mercy upon him, and light his path with your stars throughout all his days. Manwë, hear his words and bear him up upon the wings of your eagles. Ulmo, let your waters bear blessing to him. Let this blessing be upon him and his heirs as long as the thrones of the Valar endure."

Then Aragorn arose, and all that beheld him gazed in silence, for it seemed to them that he was revealed to them now for the first time. Tall as the sea-kings of old, though his height was less than the towering Elves who stood beside him, he was not overshadowed by them; ancient of days he seemed and yet in the flower of manhood; and wisdom sat upon his brow, and strength and healing were in his hands, and a light was about him not unlike the light that followed Fëanor’s sons.

Then Boromir cried, "Behold the King!"

And in that moment all the trumpets were blown, and the King Elessar went forth and came to the barrier, and Húrin of the Keys thrust it back; and amid the music of harp and of viol and of flute and the singing of clear voices the King passed through the flower-laden streets, and came to the Citadel, and entered in; and the banner of the Tree and the Stars was unfurled upon the topmost tower, and the reign of King Elessar began, of which many songs have told.

And when the King was seated upon his throne, he bade Boromir come forward, and lo! upon the King’s right hand there lay a white staff with a finial of gold, like to the Steward’s staff which had been stained with Denethor’s blood as he lay in the hall, and which now lay at rest with him in Rath Dínen. And Boromir swore his fealty to King Elessar of Gondor, first of all men to do so, and received of him the staff of his office. 

Then the King called forth also the Sons of Fëanor, and made them peers of the realm, they and their descendants for as long as Gondor should endure, and named also all their liegemen of the East soldiers of Gondor. "For," as he said, "perhaps it is a little thing to the Lords of Elvendom that they should be called also Lords of Gondor, but Gondor owes ye great thanks, and so in token of that thanks we give ye what gifts we have to give."

And the Sons of Fëanor bowed low, and Maglor answered for them, saying, "It is no small thing to us to be so honoured, who have been long outcast and bereft of our lordship, and we accept thy gift with thanks, O King."

But no other solemnity was there that day, nor any other business done, for since the Eagles had come out of the East bearing news of victory, all the City had been readying itself for merriment, and now the time for rejoicing had come.

Frodo and Sam were led apart and brought to a fair house in the Sixth Circle, and there their old raiment was taken off, but folded and set aside with honour; and clean linen was given to them. Then Gandalf came in and in his arms, to the wonder of Frodo, he bore the sword and the mithril-coat that had been taken from him in Mordor. For Sam he brought a coat of gilded mail, and he laid before them two swords. 

"I do not wish for any sword," said Frodo.

"Tonight at least you should wear one," said Gandalf.

Then Frodo took the small sword that had belonged to Sam, and had been laid at his side in Cirith Ungol. "Sting I give to you, Sam," he said.

"No, master! Mr. Bilbo gave it to you, and it goes with his silver coat; he would not wish anyone else to wear it now."

Frodo gave way; and Gandalf, as if he were their esquire, knelt and girt the sword-belts about them, and then rising he set circlets of silver upon their heads. And when they were arrayed they went to the great feast; and seats were set for them at the King’s high table upon the dais.

"This can’t be my place!" Sam protested, looking at the tall chairs set in places of honour at the dais, on Aragorn’s left hand.

"You are right," said a deep voice from behind him. "This is not your place." 

Sam turned around to see Maedhros, who, to Sam’s great consternation, knelt to them both. "Your due place is upon the King’s right hand," he said. "Come up and take it."

And with that, lifting Frodo’s chair as though he were a servant, he led them to the place he had held beside Aragorn and saw them into it, nor would he be gainsaid.

When the feasting was ended, Celeborn and Galadriel rose from their places, and Celeborn raised his hand for silence. When a hush had fallen on all the hall, he said in a clear voice, "Though Lórien is no more and many of our ancient treasures destroyed, yet we are not wholly destitute, and there are many in this hall whose valour deserves more thanks than we can ever give, in token of which we bring these gifts."

With that, Cûlegyr stepped forward, bearing in his hands a carven chest wrought of grey _mellyrn_ wood, such as could be found in few places indeed now, between the seas of Middle-Earth, and opened it.

"Above all we honour the Ringbearer and his companions this day," said Galadriel, and she drew forth from the chest a phial filled with clear water, which, when she touched it, began to glitter and gleam with its own light, until all the hall was illumined with a clear radiance, the like of which none there had seen before save a few. "For Frodo of the Shire, I bring this. In the waters of this phial are caught the light of the Evening Star, the Silmaril which shines even now upon the brows of Eärendil in the sky, that he may remember that even in the darkest of places, light shines. This I wrought with the aid of my cousin Maglor, and he wishes that you may remember the House of Fëanor by it."

Frodo bowed, but found no words as he accepted the phial, and slid its slender silver chain about his neck, but a little of the memory of the Ring’s weight eased from his shoulders as he did so.

"For Samwise Gamgee, his most faithful liegeman, companion, and gardener, there is this," and she lifted a little box, curiously carven of the same wood as the chest. "In this box is earth from my garden, with such blessing as Galadriel has still to bestow, and a nut of the _mellyrn_ tree. If you scatter this earth in your garden, Samwise, it will bloom as no place in Middle-Earth now does. This I give that you may see a glimpse of Lórien that is now passed from these lands, and remember us."

Sam, very red in the face, stammered out his thanks and accepted the box.

"Now to Meriadoc of Rohan and Peregrin of the Tower Guard," Celeborn said, and the liveried hobbits shuffled their feet, for they were not accustomed to high ceremony, and would have found themselves perhaps more at home on the field of battle. "You have shown valour beyond your stature and beyond all expectation, and have proven yourselves worthy to stand in this hall beside these great ones. For you we bring daggers forged by the Noldor of old, which saw service in ages gone in the War of the Jewels. You are worthy to bear them."

Merry and Pippin stepped forward together, and Celeborn and Cûlegyr girded the daggers on them while they stood straight and tall as the knights of Rohan and Gondor that they were indeed.

"Now," Galadriel said, "We turn to the matter of our kinsmen, against whom we have long held a grievance. We now forgive it utterly."

"Let it be known to the world," Celeborn said, "that the last Lord of Doriath and the sister of Finrod Felagund, scion of the House of Arafinwë, hold the Sons of Fëanor free of their bloodguilt, on behalf of the Kingdoms of Doriath and Nargothrond." 

Then Elrond, who had risen as they spoke, spoke himself, and added, "Let it be known also that the heir of Eärendil and Elwing of Sirion holds them likewise free." 

Galadriel then took up the strain, and said, "In token of that, Maedhros, son of Fëanor, by right High King of the Noldor, though thou hast richer jewels in thy treasury, we give unto thee this circlet in token of thy office: for of rings and weapons of war we have had far too much; our lands and our treasures are greatly diminished, and what swords we have do not compare to the blades you bear from of old."

Maedhros stepped forward, and tears were on his cheek, and his face was very grave. He knelt before Celeborn without a word, and the Lord of Lórien set a fair circlet of intertwined copper and steel, set about with red gems, upon his head. "This crown was forged with the aid of Gimli and Glóin of Erebor, from the steel of thy brother’s sword," Galadriel said as Celeborn did so, "which Gwaihir the Windlord bore back from Mordor where it lay at the foot of Barad-Dur. So does he also have a part in the giving of gifts, this day." 

Rising, Maedhros bowed to them both, and then straightened to his full height, still facing the Lord and Lady of Lórien, who, in their turn, knelt before him. Solemnly, he gave his hand to each, raising first Galadriel and then Celeborn to their feet. Then he turned to face the hall, and those who stood about saw in him once more the power of his mighty kindred. Flames flickered in his eyes and crowned his head, but now he was no more a vision of terror, but of majesty, and the warmth that filled the hall did not burn. Beside him, Celeborn and Galadriel both seemed to have taken up something of the light he carried with them, and it shone forth redoubled in their eyes and faces. Frodo, upon an impulse, lifted up the Phial that hung about his neck, and the light that shone from it sprang up like a white flame and filled all the hall. None who stood by ever forgot that sight, for it was like a glimpse into the Elder Days of Middle-Earth — and the light did not fade. 

Then Maedhros spoke, and his deep voice rang through the hall: "The Noldor who remain in Middle-Earth have little need of a High King, and it shall not be long ere I and my brothers depart once more for Valinor, thence never to return again. But for the time in which I remain, I accept this crown and the duties it bears with it. To the Noldor who remain, I shall be true king: first in every attack and last in every retreat, first to suffer dearth and last to speak of it. That I owe to them, and more. To you, Lord of Doriath and Lady of Lórien, I owe an even greater debt. You have forgiven the debt of blood, and so I shall speak of it no more, but know that I count your forgiveness worth more than any jewels. No thanks can be sufficient for such kindness as you have shown, but nevertheless I and my brothers do thank you. Last, which is the highest place, I thank you for this memory of my brother, for though I do not doubt our reunion, yet that does not diminish the grief of his passing, and it comforts me to know that he is honoured here."

With that he returned to his seat upon the dais, and yet the light that was on him and on Celeborn and Galadriel still lingered, and spread through the hall, and there it remained until the feast was ended. In ages to come, there were some who said that, for one night, the Elder Days of Middle-Earth, with all their beauty and glory and power, had come down into Minas Tirith and blessed it. The Last Day of the First Age, it was called ever after, and the First Day of the Fourth, and they were the same, and the folk of Gondor remembered it throughout uncounted years. And there were some who said that upon that day, the light that shone into the windows of the Great Hall of Minas Tirith was clearer than on other days, and the Evening Star shone brighter in the sky, and perhaps those who knew how to listen and look might see and hear in the light memories of the great lords and ladies of eld who had blessed the hall so very long ago.

Circlets were given also to Maglor and his brothers, all forged of the same steel, though they were less in splendour than that which had been given to Maedhros. To Maglor, Elrond gave a harp, wrought of _mellyrn_ wood and inlaid with gold. And Éomer King of Rohan stood forward, and gave to the Sons of Fëanor six stallions of the Mearas of Rohan, for he said, "Such friends to Rohan as ye have been should not be suffered to go afoot longer than must be."

That night were many words and tokens of friendship exchanged, between Elves and Dwarves and Men, and likewise were many ancient feuds laid to rest: for the men of the East broke bread with the men of the West, and found with each other kinships both expected and unexpected, and Elves sat beside Dwarves and planned together for the restoration of Gondor. And last and not least unexpected, the folk of Doriath sat at feast with the House of Fëanor without enmity, and they lifted up their voices together in a single song of rejoicing. 

And when the giving of gifts was ended, Maglor stood forward, and said unto the hall, "Lo! Lords and knights and men and elves and dwarves of valour unashamed, kings and princes, and fair people of Gondor, and Riders of Rohan, and ye Elves of Lórien and Rivendell, and Dúnedain of the North, and greathearts of the Shire, and all free folk of East and West, now listen to my lay. For I will sing to you a new song, of Frodo of the Nine Fingers and the Ring of Doom."

And when Sam heard that he laughed aloud for sheer delight, and he stood up and cried: "O great glory and splendour! And all my wishes have come true!" And then he wept.

And all the host laughed and wept, and in the midst of their merriment and tears Maglor’s clear voice rose like silver and gold, and all were hushed. And he sang to them, now in the Elven-tongue, now in the speech of the West, until their hearts, wounded with sweet words, overflowed, and their joy was like swords, and they passed in thought out to regions where pain and delight flow together and tears are the very wine of blessedness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit to Mr_Bultitude for some of Maedhros and Frodo's dialogue, and also for the idea of Maedhros' circlet being made from Celegorm's sword.
> 
> So. This is nearly over. HOWEVER, the deleted/alternate scenes are not yet finished, and I'm taking prompts for them. Thus, if there are characters you wish you could have seen more of, or some events that I glossed over that you wish had been told in full, tell me about it in the comments and I'll see if I can't fit it in!
> 
> Also, a note on heraldry: the flags mentioned are, in order, the symbols of Rohan, Dol Amroth, Lothlórien (my invention, meant to stand behind Galadriel's seat), Doriath (not mine, stands behind Celeborn's), the House of Fëanor with an update to indicate that Maedhros now holds the kingship of the Noldor (the number of points of a star touching the rim of an heraldic device indicates status to in Elvish heraldry, and Elrond brought it, in case you're curious), the Steward of Gondor (Boromir gets a seat too since he's here), and, last but not least, the House of Elendil.


	38. And One White Tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dead are mourned, Aragorn finds something he does not expect, and there is one more celebration to be had in Gondor before our adventurers go their separate ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very sorry this chapter is so late! RL has been smacking me on the head lately and so I've had to attend to that. But I'm back, and hopefully this is worth the wait!

_To every thing there is a season,  
and a time to every purpose under the heaven:  
a time to be born, and a time to die…  
a time to kill, and a time to heal…  
a time to weep, and a time to laugh;  
a time to mourn, and a time to dance._  
-Ecclesiastes 3:1-4

If so great a victory called for great celebrations, it called for great mourning also, for those who had fallen were not few. Renowned and nameless, captain and soldier, Elf and Man, many had taken their ways to the Halls of Mandos. Many had been buried where they fell of necessity, and there were two tall new barrows beside the River Anduin, that of the men of Gondor upon the south and that of the men of Rohan upon the north, and already the green grass which had been burnt and trampled from all the field had begun to grow again upon them. But Théoden King of Rohan and Celegorm Fëanorion had been laid in Rath Dínen to await the appointed time of mourning, and that time was now come.

In slow and mournful procession, the generals and lords of the New Alliance, as it was already beginning to be known, together with the Ringbearer and his companions, set forth towards the Silent Street. At the head of the procession walked all the Sons of Fëanor who remained, robed in solemn black. After them came the hobbits, Merry and Pippin clad in the livery of Rohan and Gondor, and Frodo and Sam in simple mourning. Then came King Elessar, in the full panoply of his rank, and Boromir the Steward with Faramir his brother, and the Lady Éowyn with him, and Éomer King, and Elrond of Rivendell, and Celeborn and Galadriel, and Gandalf the White with a grey mantle cast over his light like sorrowful clouds over the face of the Sun, and many soldiers of Gondor and the Mark, and Caranthir’s liegemen of the East, who called themselves now the Sons of Bór, with them. No voice was lifted either in song or speech, either in the procession or among the sombre folk of the City who stood to either side, and the echo of footfalls was the only sound that broke the stillness.

When they reached the walls of the sixth circle, the guard yielded up the keys by the order of the King, and the little-used door of Fen Hollen was opened, and the sombre procession entered into Rath Dínen. There were many houses and tombs along its length, some of great size, set about with statues and worked with many fair designs, and some smaller and simpler, with only the name of those who lay within carven into the white stone above the door. At the end of the long street stood two houses, one upon each side, which might have been taken for great palaces in the world of the living, save that dust lay before their lofty doors, and the rooms behind the arched windows were bare and still, with only carven stone to be seen within. These were the House of Kings and the House of Stewards, set upon the right hand and the left, and therein had the Kings and Stewards of Gondor been set to their long rest for nigh on an Age of the World.

Before the House of Kings, the procession halted. The Guards of the Citadel who followed Elessar unbarred the doors and thrust them back, and then stood aside. The open arch now revealed a high round room with pillars wrought of black marble, but illumined by many windows. Within, upon a broad table of marble, lay the _hroä_ which had once housed the fierce spirit of Celegorm son of Fëanor. He was arrayed in bright mail, and a circlet of gold interlaced with steel lay upon his brow. His hands were folded over the hilt of a broken sword. The lower part of the sword, all knew, had gone to make the crowns which he and his brothers now wore. A cloth of red and gold was drawn up to his breast. Beneath his white-gold hair, his pale face was peaceful, and almost one might have thought that he slept, were it not for the utter stillness that lay on him. 

Slowly, after his brothers, the rest of the procession filed in, one by one, and took up places about the walls of the room. Frodo and Sam wept silently, for though they had travelled with him only for a short while, they had learned to love the strange, grim Elf who had led them past Sauron’s defences with all his skill, who had rescued them when all seemed lost, and who had, at the last, so merrily given his life for them. Looking about, they saw that they were not alone, for even those who had not known Celegorm themselves wept for the sorrow of his brothers. 

Then Maglor struck his harp and began to sing, and all save the music was forgotten. At the feast, his voice had carried the joy of victory beyond all expectation, of hope rekindled in the darkness and the darkness vanquished, of a world made clean of darkness again. His song had sparkled like clear waters laughing in the sunlight, and had brought the same laughter to the hearts of all who heard. Now his song was slow and sad, and seemed to carry with it all the mourning of the world. And, as Frodo listened, he began to see as well as to hear. He could not understand the words, for the song was in the ancient tongue of the Elves of Valinor, and the accent was strange to him, but he seemed to see a bare and blasted field at the foot of a great fortress of iron. He knew, though how he could not say, that it had once been green and fair and a place where men and beasts alike rejoiced to tread. Now there were few who dared set foot upon it, save for the woman, clad in black, who stood and wept beside a lone hill, whereon, were flowers and grass, the only growing things as far as the eye could see. But beneath the flowers glinted half-rusted iron, and under the grass he saw the curve of bones. He shuddered, remembering the plains of Ard-Galen that Maglor had sung of upon their journey from Rivendell, before their first parting, and the way that the Elves had fallen silent when Pippin asked what happened afterwards. 

Then the scene in his mind’s eye changed, and he was standing in a huge carven hall, or a cave, for the pillars seemed wrought of living stone. Tapestries hung on the wall, and gems glinted from the curiously carved walls, and the floor was a swirling mosaic of many-coloured stones that twinkled in the torchlight. Two tall thrones, elaborately carven and inlaid with many colours, stood on a low dais at one end of the hall. But the torches were fallen from their brackets, smouldering on the floor, and the tapestries were slashed and torn, and blood stained the bright-patterned floor. All about him were Elves, most in armour and wielding keen swords, but some of them in brightly-coloured tunics, bearing weapons that had clearly been snatched up in a moment’s desperation. He could hear nothing of the picture, but he could well imagine the shouts and screams of battle and the clanging of blade against blade.

There were two liveries among the armoured Elves, and both of them he knew from the banners that had hung behind the high seats in the Pelennor Fields: one a white star, its rays swirling in a spiral, set on a black ground dotted with smaller stars, the other a red-and-gold eight-rayed star that he knew denoted the House of Fëanor. It was clear that the Elves of the House of Fëanor were near to winning, but clear too that their victory had come at a cost, for many of them lay slain upon the floor. Before the two thrones there lay two corpses, staining the steps with their blood. Both, he saw, had bright hair that stood out against the dark blood with terrible brilliance. The silver and silver-gold heads lay close together, as though they belonged to friends whispering secrets to each other, but each dead hand clutched a sword that was driven through the other’s body. Frodo almost feared to look at the faces, but look he did — look he must. The face beneath the silver hair looked terribly like Elrond as it stared at him with wide, surprised eyes, but he did not know the name of its owner. The other face he did know, but not in the guise which it now wore. Celegorm’s face, which he had known only in grim determination or sudden laughter, snarled at him like a wolf, furious even in death, and somehow the sight of that expression was worse than the knowledge of the Elf’s death.

All the time the music had been growing more and more sorrowful, until Frodo wondered how anyone could live and laugh in the sunlight when there was such grief. _I can’t bear it,_ he thought. _I can’t bear it. But what else can I do?_

Then, just when he thought his heart would break, there was a change. The sorrow did not abate, but it lightened. The vision of the past slipped away, and in place he gazed on the dead face before him, bearing its expression of noble peace. Words took shape in his mind as he looked on it, but they were not his words. _Two deaths,_ he thought, _the first to destroy, the second to save. How can I not mourn? How can I not rejoice?_

At last, the song ended. Frodo felt strangely peaceful, as though a storm had broken within his breast, and its rain of grief had washed him clean in its passing. Four soldiers of Gondor stepped forward and took up the bier upon which Celegorm lay, folding back the cloth of gold that had lain over him, and then, with measured pace, they bore him deeper into the House of Kings, to the place where a tomb awaited for him, his likeness carven in stone upon it by the city’s stonewrights with the aid of the Dwarves. There they laid him, and closed the doors, and left him to his long sleep, and turned their feet once more to the living city.

It was strange to step out of Fen Hollen, and to hear the noise of living folk about them, and to know that he whom they had left behind in Rath Dínen would hear such things no more upon the hither shore. For what remained of the day all who had taken part in the funeral were, for the most part, silent in their duties and their rest. The hobbits sat together in Frodo’s rooms in the Citadel, watching the fire flickering in the grate — for there was still a chill in the spring air — and looking out to the East, where the sky was clear now for the first time in living memory. Curufin and Caranthir sought out the forges with Gimli and Glóin, and set to work in companionable silence, not caring whether the tasks brought to them were great or small. Amrod and Amras wandered together out of the city entirely, going to and fro over the burnt and trampled field of the Pelennor, where new grass was already beginning to grow amidst the ash. Maglor, singing softly, stood at the very front of the great prow of stone that clove the City in two, Maedhros standing silently beside him. Boromir stood by them for some time, but in the end he returned to the halls of the Citadel, for even upon a day of such solemnity the work of a Steward and General went on.

Aragorn went first into the Citadel, but there he did off his finery and put on once more the clothes of a Ranger of the Wild, and then, following Gandalf, who still bore his grey robe over the white, he took his way out of the city, until they reached a path that led up from the southern feet of Mount Mindolluin. Only Amrod and Amras saw their passing, and they spoke naught of it. Not until evening did they return from that high place, and then Aragorn bore in his hand a white sapling, with leaves that were dark above and silver beneath, and already it had budded and put forth white flowers, and all who looked upon it knew it for a scion of the White Tree that now stood, dead, over the fountain, but the Sons of Fëanor looked on it with reverence unsurpassed, and one by one they touched its leaves gently, gazing upon the memory of ancient Telperion, that now had passed out of the world forever. And the dead tree that stood by the fountain was uprooted, but with reverence, and they did not burn it, but laid it to rest in the silence of Rath Dínen. And Aragorn planted the new tree in the court by the fountain while Maglor sang a song of the Trees of Valinor, and swiftly and gladly it began to grow; and when the month of May entered in it was laden with blossom, and Aragorn set watchmen on the walls, saying that a sign had been given — but what that sign portended, he would not say, and nor would Gandalf, though he smiled conspiratorially at Pippin when he asked.

But ere that time had come, and after the planting of the Tree and the funeral of Celegorm, Éomer King took his leave from the City for a little while to see Théoden King to his long home, and Merry and Pippin went with him, and Maglor Fëanorion, and Lady Éowyn also, though loath was she to say farewell to the Lord Faramir.

Gléowine the king’s minstrel sang lament for Théoden, for though Maglor stood by with his brothers, Théoden had been King of the Rohirrim, and it was fittest that his own people sing his passing into the long halls of those who fall in battle. Merry and Pippin, too, had come to bid their farewells to the king whom Merry had served, though briefly, and both of them wept, for though Pippin had met Théoden only at his passing, he had seen in him a king and a man worth following. After the funeral, there was a solemn feast, and the dead were honoured and the survivors lauded, and Merry swore his allegiance to Éomer King, and remained some weeks in Rohan with him and his sister ere a messenger arrived to ask their presence in Gondor once more, as friends of King Elessar.

In the mean time, Aragorn called for the Lords Boromir and Faramir, that they might take counsel together for the ruling of Gondor in the years to come. When they stood before him, Aragorn rose from the high seat and came to stand beside them, and said, "My lords, the fall of your father has left much to be done in Gondor, and many roles to be filled. Though I am king, yet I would not force your hand to a task you love not, and ye have both shown yourselves alike skilled and brave. I have need of a Steward, for there will be need for me to leave this City, perhaps for many days, if I wish to restore the kingdom of Arnor. But I have need also of a Captain-General, for I am not so foolish as to think that the wars of the world are ended with the fall of the Enemy. And yet the Captain-General must often ride out with me to war, while the Steward must look to the City, and so they cannot be the same man. Boromir, by right of blood the Stewardship is thine, but I have yet to meet thy equal as a leader of men in war. What saist thou?"

"I will serve thee, my liege, in whatever place thou wilt have me. If thou shouldst wish for a Steward, I shall be a Steward; if thou shouldst wish for a General I shall be a General. But it would rejoice my heart to ride to war by thy side."

"And I, also," said Faramir, "will serve thee in whatsoever way thou wishest. But it would rejoice my heart to set my hand to the healing of my City, whose hurts in war I have long grieved."

"Then," said Boromir, "gladly do I yield the staff of the Steward to thee, my brother." 

And he held out the white staff with its cap of worked gold. But Aragorn said: "Stay a little yet. There has been much of change in this City of late. Let them have a little time to grow used to their King ere they must learn to accept a new Steward, beloved as he may be."

"Thou hast spoken wisely, lord," said Faramir. "Even in such a time of changes as this it is good that some things remain the same. I am in no great haste to take up the Stewardship."

Then Boromir smiled, for he thought of the Lady Éowyn who walked with Faramir upon the walls of the City at sunrise, but he said naught of it, for it was not yet the time to speak of such things.

"Let us speak of this matter once more," said Aragorn, "when half a year’s time has passed. For now, indeed, the duties of the Steward and the Captain-General are much the same, for the King shall not soon leave his City, and in that City there is much to be done."

In the days after he and his brothers had returned from Rohan, but before the message had gone out to call all friends of Elessar to Minas Tirith for a time of rejoicing (over what occasion none knew), Maedhros took Boromir aside, and said grimly, "There still lies a matter between us, Boromir of Gondor, which is not laid to rest. I owe you a debt of blood."

And Boromir looked strangely at him, and said, "There is indeed a debt, Maedhros Fëanorion, but it is not the debt which you believe it to be. I have thought much upon the way in which my father met his end, and it was not at your hand. We said to the City that he was slain in conflict with a messenger of the Enemy, and it has come into my mind that we spoke more truly than we knew. My father was dead from the moment he drew blade against my brother. You did what must have been done — what I would have been forced to do had you not been there. My father’s death grieves me, and it shall ever grieve me that he lost his battle to the Enemy thus, but I hold you blameless in it. The debt which lies between us is a debt of gratitude. You saved the life of my brother. You stood beside me — aye, and before me — in the streets of this City at the darkest hour she has yet known, and without you it is in doubt if she would have lived to greet her King. It is my joy and my honour to call you my brother in arms."

And with that he held out his left hand, and Maedhros took it and said no word, but from that day the Steward of Gondor and the High King of the Elves were fast in friendship, and naught could come between them.

It might be seen also that as Frodo and Sam waited for the Rohirrim to return, and Merry with them, the hobbits spent much time in the company of Maedhros and Boromir (for Pippin still stood guard with the soldiers of Gondor), and as they walked together through the City, overseeing the repairs, Frodo talked with them of Celegorm’s last days, and told Maedhros all he could recall of their journey through Ithilien and the pass of Cirith Ungol under Celegorm’s guidance. And when he spoke of the blessing Celegorm had given to them under the shadow of Morgul, Maedhros smiled, and said, "Remember those words, for we prayed them often under the shadow of Angband’s hells of iron, and never have the Valar failed to answer such a prayer when it was truly meant: though the answer is not always the one for which you may hope, it never goes unheard."

"I will remember," said Frodo.

"And so will I," said Sam.

They walked on through the City in silence afterwards, watching as the stone-masons worked to repair the hurts of the first circle, and listening as Gimli and Glóin directed the workmen in building the great Gate anew.

When the new green of spring had spread itself over the Field of the Pelennor, spreading from the new barrows over the trampled earth, there came a procession of mounted folk riding slowly from Rivendell, bearing many banners and clad as those who come for a festival. They were the attendants of Arwen Undómiel, last vision of Lúthien to grace Middle-Earth in its fading, who came to meet the King of Gondor, who, with his crown, had won the right to take her hand in marriage. Many of his kinsmen of the North rode with the company also, for Arnor could spare them now that the Enemy had fallen, and they bore with them the Sceptre of Annúminas that had long lain among the heirlooms of Rivendell, and Elrond Halfelven yielded it to King Aragorn Elessar, together with his daughter’s hand.

Great joy was in the City of Kings at the wedding of her King, and the White Tree bloomed bright in the sunlight, and the new King and Queen were attended by the nobles of the great families of all the children of Illúvatar. Gondor and Rohan, Rivendell and Mirkwood, the Lonely Mountain and the Iron Hills, even the Shire waited on them. And if at one moment during that day of exceeding gladness Aragorn noted that the eyes of Boromir lingered on the fair-haired daughter of one of his kinsmen, with eyes as clear as a mountain stream who returned his gaze with maiden modesty, only a smile would have betrayed him, and one more smile among the many seen that day would not be questioned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder again that if you have ideas or prompts for the Appendices, stick them in the comments and I'll see if I can't write them!
> 
> Credit to Mr_Bultitude for proofreading and some of the wedding description.


	39. Feet That Wandering Have Gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even the most joyful of times must come to an end sooner or later. The hobbits return to the Shire, and find that home is not quite as they left it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Help, this story keeps growing more chapters just when I think it's done!

In the days after the wedding, there was both work and rest for those in the City: rest from war, but work in healing the hurts that war had done to their home. Though Éomer King had returned to Rohan, he had granted Merry leave to remain behind with his cousins. All the Company who had set out from Rivendell together shared the feeling that after this parting, there would be few occasions when they all met together again, and so they waited in Minas Tirith as the halcyon days of summer passed slowly by, and the White Tree in the courtyard waxed tall and fair, and the City began to be restored to her former glory — aye, and in some ways promised to surpass it, for the craft of Elf and Dwarf had joined with that of Men in her repairs. There was a joy, too, about the people of Gondor that had not been seen for many years. Even those whose homes had been destroyed in the siege set to the work of rebuilding them with a song on their lips. Merry and Pippin and Amrod and Amras entered fully into the spirit of celebration, and, whenever their time was not spent on their duties, set themselves to finding ways to wreak a little merry havoc among their friends.

But all things must end sooner or later, and the hobbits began to grow restless, for they had had no news of the Shire since they left it in the autumn, and Bilbo had not ridden with Arwen’s company from Rivendell. And so when midsummer was past, Frodo spoke to King Elessar of his desire to return to his own home, and the hobbits prepared to depart from Minas Tirith. It was about these preparations that Frodo found himself speaking to the King one evening as they walked in the gardens of the Houses of Healing. "Your generosity is unsurpassed, my lord, and the hospitality of Minas Tirith deserves a song of its own, but my heart still turns towards my own people," Frodo said.

"I would gladly have you and your companions remain in the White City or within sight of her until the time came for you to leave these shores forever," Aragorn said. "Minas Tirith will never tire of hosting her saviours. But I, too, understand the longing for one’s own house: It is the nature of Men, and I think also of Hobbits, to love most dearly their first home. I shall see you and your companions provided with all that you need for this journey, and Queen Arwen and I will send you on your way with all the blessings we have to bestow.

"But, though Sauron has fallen and his armies are scattered, there is still peril in the Wild," he added thoughtfully, after a moment’s pause. "And though you and your cousins have more than proven yourselves upon the field of battle, still there is safety in numbers. It would make my mind easier if you were to travel in a larger company than four. And besides that it is not fitting for such heroes of the Free Peoples to set out on their way without even a single guard of honour."

He smiled as he spoke this last, but the colour rose in Frodo’s cheeks all the same. "I am no hero, my lord," he said, "but I would be grateful for any guard that you should see fit to send with me and my companions, for Sam and I are no warriors."

"Then I will take thought for who best to send," said Aragorn. "And to you, Frodo Baggins, I will always be Strider, or Aragorn if you wish it. For you are my friend more than you have ever been my subject."

Before the next day was out, Amrod and Amras had come to speak to Merry and Pippin. It was a good deal easier to tell them apart now, for Amrod now wore his sword on his right hand instead of his left: his right arm, though Elrond had tended it skilfully, still bore the bone-deep scars of the Balrog’s flaming hand, and it would never regain its full strength. "We heard you were leaving soon," Amras said. 

"We are," Merry answered. "Frodo and Sam want to see Bilbo again and then get home, and our lords have given us leave to visit the Shire for a time before we return to take up our duties here again."

"We also heard that you wanted company," Amrod added.

"King Elessar did say something about a guard of honour," Pippin replied.

"We thought we’d like to volunteer," said Amras.

"If you don’t mind having us," said Amrod with a grin.

Merry and Pippin looked at each other in surprise. Of all the things they had expected, that had not been one. Pippin recovered his wits first, and said formally, "We would be honoured to have you, my lords."

"Excellent," said Amrod with a smile. "And there’s no need to call us lords. We are to travel with you, after all. Not to mention you are soldiers of Gondor and Rohan in your own right now."

"That’s settled, then," said Amras.

Cûlegyr of Lórien, when he heard that Amrod meant to accompany the hobbits, insisted on coming himself, for he had fought with Amrod since the Siege of Lórien and would not hear of parting from him. 

And so, at last, the partings began. There were far more folk leaving Minas Tirith than the six who were bound for the Shire, for Celeborn and Galadriel had announced their intention to the King of going to seek for a place where the folk of Lothlórien could find a home, and Gandalf and Maglor went with them. Lothlórien itself would take many years indeed to heal, and most of its people no longer desired to return to it now that Galadriel’s power in it was broken. Elrond, too, was leaving the City, and the most of his folk with him, for Rivendell awaited her lord and he could not stay away forever.

Elrond had said his farewells to Arwen alone the morning before, and they had spoken long as they walked upon the green slopes of Mount Mindolluin. None ever knew what they said to each other then, but bitter indeed was that parting that should endure beyond the walls of the world, even though there would still be meetings, at times, before that final parting. 

The day when the hobbits planned to depart, the King and Queen called them into the Citadel. There Queen Arwen spoke to Frodo of the ship that would sail from Cirdan’s havens in the West, and offered him her place upon it should he find that the weight of his wounds lay heavy upon him in Middle-Earth, and he thanked her, though he as yet reserved his answer, for he did not know what healing he might find on the hither shore — already, with the craft of Maglor and Elrond together, the scars of knife and sting had faded much.

Together the four hobbits walked down from the Citadel with the King and Queen, and they found that much of the City had come out to bid them farewell. Already, though the scars of battle and fire could still be seen, Minas Tirith was much changed from the stern fortress of war which Pippin had first known. Flowers bloomed in gardens and on windowsills, gleaming in brilliant colours against the white stone; brightly clad women and children went to and fro in the street, calling out merrily to each other to announce the coming of their King and Queen, together with the _Periannath._

When they reached the gate, Amrod and Amras were waiting for them, along with all the others who intended to depart from the City that day. But in addition to the travellers, many of the great ones in the City had come out to bid them farewell. There were the King and Queen with Boromir and Faramir, and the Lady Éowyn beside him, and there was Gandalf, and Galadriel, and then, standing nearest the gate, all the remaining Sons of Fëanor who meant to remain in the City. Pippin found himself unexpectedly reluctant to say his goodbyes to Maedhros — he had been in the tall Elf’s company since leaving Rivendell, and a great friendship had grown between them, though neither had expected it. "I don’t know what I’m going to do with myself on the journey," he said wryly, "not having you and Boromir to knock me flat and tell me my footwork is all wrong!"

Maedhros, smiling, went down on one knee so that Pippin could look at him without craning his neck, and answered, "Knock your cousins flat and tell them _their_ footwork is all wrong, I imagine. They have had little chance to practice their swordplay and you may have passed them in skill. Or perhaps one of my brothers will be content to spar with you in my stead. By all accounts we are much alike."

"And I am left-handed now," Amrod put in cheerfully, "if you’re feeling especially nostalgic. Which means I cannot change chairs with Amras anymore, but it has its compensations."

Maedhros gave Amrod a disapproving glance, but Amrod was quite unmoved and smiled back innocently. A little too innocently, perhaps, for Maedhros narrowed his eyes in suspicion. Pippin was tempted to hold his breath. Then Amras beckoned to Pippin, and Frodo stepped up behind him, for he and Maedhros were friends as well, and the moment passed.

"I have not yet thanked you for your counsel," Frodo said, "both that which you gave me upon the road and that which you have given since. Even at the darkest times of the journey it was a comfort to know that others had walked a like path before."

"You need not thank me," Maedhros replied. "Ours is not a road that any should need to walk, but I can find it in myself to be thankful that I have walked it if I can give aid to others who must do so also."

"I shall thank you nevertheless," said Frodo with a smile. "And though I go to my home now and there is much for you to do here, I hope that this will not be the last time we meet. Tea is at four, but you are more than welcome under the Hill at any time."

"And you and your companions," said Aragorn, who stood near, "shall be welcome in Minas Tirith as long as you shall live, and your descendants after you for as long as this City stands. For though many hands have helped us in this war against Sauron, it shall not be forgotten that it was you and Samwise who struck the final blow."

"It shall not indeed," Maedhros answered, "nor shall it be forgotten that we were nearly defeated when that blow was struck. King Elessar tells me that you will not call yourselves heroes, and perhaps that is fitting — those who would claim that title seldom deserve it. But I name you Elf-Friends, and say as High King of the Noldor that you shall ever have the gratitude of all the Elves upon both sides of the Sea."

Frodo bowed very low, but found no words as he turned his face towards his home at last, and set out upon the journey back to the Shire.

Late that evening, after all the travellers had departed and the dwellers in Minas Tirith had returned to their homes, from several places in the Citadel and the upper circles of the City, various voices (nobody was ever quite sure where or how many) could be heard shouting in furious tones, "AMROD! AMRAS!" or "MERRY! PIPPIN!"

It was now high summer, and the days were warm and pleasant and the fields were green. The hobbits, with Amrod and Amras, took an easy pace, bending their steps first towards Edoras, though it lay a little out of their way. Éomer King sent riders out to meet them as soon as the lookouts sighted them, and they were given horses and led into the city in triumph. The Rohirrim would have gladly hosted and feasted them for weeks, and even with the short notice Éomer had had of their arrival, the meal that night was more than satisfactory even by hobbit standards, but now that the hobbits were at last bound for their home once more, they were eager to be on their way. And so, after two days of rest and celebration, they set out once again, mounted now on horses and ponies Éomer had given them them, and supplied with plenty of water and food for their journey, for with Lothlórien burned they had no certainty of meeting any other friends between Rohan and Rivendell.

Without the urgency of their outward journey, the road towards Rivendell seemed both long and short: long, for each day passed slowly to minds that had so little to worry them, yet short, for each night they slept secure and woke without alarm to find that the sun was shining brightly from the East, feeling that no time at all had passed since they laid their heads down. They no longer needed to travel by night and sleep during the day, nor did they fear to light fires and make hot meals at every camp. They meant to reach the Misty Mountains well before autumn, and so they followed the River Anduin towards the Pass of Caradhras. Frodo and Sam, especially, were a little startled to find how pleasant the road could be when there was no Ring to burden them and no Saruman to send out orc-scouts after them. 

True to his words to Maedhros, Pippin insisted on spending a little time in sword-play each evening after they halted, though Frodo and Sam were for the most part content to watch him as he sparred with Amrod and Amras. Sam would forever prefer his trusty frying-pan to a sword, for all that he had used Sting to great effect in the Pass of Cirith Ungol, and Frodo now preferred to bear no weapon at all, and only kept Sting at Sam’s insistence. Still, every once in a while Pippin would draw one or both of them out, and they would at least attempt a few drills with their swords. As often as not this ended in wrestling matches cheered on by the twins, but nobody particularly minded that.

Their company grew more subdued when they reached the juncture of Silverlode and Anduin, for what remained of Lothlórien was a sorrowful sight. The ash of the Balrog’s fires had long ago washed away under the spring rains, but the blackened stumps of great trees dotted the now-bare plain, and here and there could be seen the burnt husks of buildings. But there were also sprigs of new green leaves pushing up through the burnt and packed earth around some of the stumps, and grass was spreading inward from the banks of the Silverlode. Lórien would never recover its ancient splendour, but in years to come there would still be _mellyrn_ trees upon the banks of Anduin. Perhaps they grew there for the memory of Galadriel’s power that still lingered, or perhaps it was some grace in the waters of Ulmo, but it was both a sorrow and a relief to Cûlegyr to see their saplings. The travellers camped by the banks of Silverlode for two days while Cûlegyr and Amrod and Amras sang songs of mourning for the battle that had been lost there. On the second night, Amrod and Cûlegyr told the tale of the battle against the Balrog, and the long siege and the weary march to Rohan, and did not end until their tale had come to Gandalf coming down upon the battlefield like the sun in wrath.

The next morning they climbed up the Dimrill Stair, passing by the open Gates of Moria from well over a bowshot’s length away, for they were not sure that orcs did not linger there — Gimli and Glóin had already sent messages to Dáin that Durin’s Bane had perished, and the Dwarves might once more claim their most famous work of old, but there were many things which had a claim on the attention of the King under the Mountain, and in any case there had not yet been time for a company large enough to reclaim Moria to make its way from the Lonely Mountain.

None of the hobbits had ever crossed the Pass of Caradhras before, and neither had Cûlegyr, who had spent all his life east of the Misty Mountains. Before they were properly on the shoulder of the mountain, Amrod and Amras warned their companions to tread lightly and speak softly, for even in high summer Caradhras did not love travellers and might choose to send a fall of snow, or even an avalanche, down on their heads. "Caranthir got us past last time," said Amrod.

"He’s better than any of us with stone and buildings," Amras added.

"Except perhaps Curufin."

"Even Curufin does better with metal and jewels."

"The point is that we may not be able to soothe Caradhras so well as he did," Amrod finished, "so it is better that we not rouse his wrath in the first place."

With that they went on, keeping well away from the sheer drop that was rapidly growing on their left hand, and moving as swiftly as they could without making overmuch noise. Hobbits are remarkably light on their feet — the blundering Big Folk often believe that they make no noise at all — and they were travelling with one Elf of Lórien and two of the greatest hunters of the Noldor. Cûlegyr and Amrod were clad in the curious, shifting grey cloaks of the folk of Lórien, which had a curious power of taking on the colours which surrounded them; Frodo and Sam and Amras were clad in soft browns and greens, the better to remain unseen in the forests of Mirkwood and Ithilien. If it were not for the ponies which the hobbits led, even the most observant of Men would not have found it easy to either hear or see them.

Caradhras noticed their passage nonetheless. As they reached the crest of the pass, a small, wet storm-cloud dropped its load of half-frozen slush on their shoulders, and boulders came loose from their moorings at intervals and bounced over their heads on the downward slopes. But nothing worse happened, thankfully, and they found themselves on the foothills again before the sun set that evening. Rivendell lay some days’ travel to the west, and so thither they turned their steps as long as the sunset gave them light. They made camp that night with great satisfaction, for the hobbits felt that the last of the great hazards of the road had been passed: there were now no Nazgûl to dog their steps through the northern wilds, and the abandoned watchtower of Amon Sûl seemed smaller in their memories, now that they had seen the glory of Minas Tirith and the terrible darkness on the fences of Mordor.

Four days’ easy journeying brought them to Rivendell, and they found that the Last Homely House, at least, did not pale in comparison to the other places they had seen on their travels. Elrond and his company, travelling on horseback and doubtless hurrying a little more than the hobbits had done, had reached Rivendell nearly a week before them, and brought the news that they were coming. Elrond and all his household turned out to greet them. Glorfindel bowed to them, and gave his hand to each of the three Elves, and even Erestor was more than courteous, but of all the great folk who greeted them, the one the hobbits were the gladdest to see was Bilbo, who came out from the house, leaning on his cane, and insisted on having all four of them into his little parlour at once and hearing as much as they could tell him in one afternoon of their adventures. But he dozed off to sleep several times during the recounting, though he woke up with great punctuality for meals, and in the end he entrusted his notes and the Red Book that held all his writings to Frodo, saying, "I have done as much work on this as I will ever do, I think, my lad. The _Translations from the Elvish_ will never be really finished, not when there are so many stories, but I have put them in a respectable state, and _There and Back Again_ is really finished. And there’s plenty of room for you to put your story too, as you had better do, or who knows what will be said of you!"

"Don’t worry, Uncle, I shall. Once I am back in Bag End I shall have all the time in the world to put things in their proper order, and Merry and Pippin to ask for anything that I didn’t hear about myself."

"Excellent! You had better be going, then," said Bilbo, and Frodo agreed, but nevertheless he lingered in Rivendell for nearly two weeks. 

Sam privately thought that he would stay through his and Bilbo’s birthday, but Elrond reminded them that the Wild was not safe even now, and that it would be better to be safely at home before the autumn frosts unless they wished to remind themselves of their outward journey by spending a thoroughly uncomfortable two weeks in wet camps on short commons, and so they set out around the beginning of August. They travelled faster after they left Rivendell than they had before, for the country was less friendly here than on the banks of Anduin or even in what remained of Eregion, and the hobbits were eager to be home.

The autumn frosts were just beginning to nip at the air, and the leaves on the trees were turning brilliant colours, when they rode through the gates of Bree and up to the Prancing Pony, to the immense amazement of Mr. Butterbur, and shared the news of the world with him, and heard from him the news of Bree — news of hard times and strange creatures coming out of the Wild. That news made them all the more hasty to reach the Shire, so they stayed only a night at the Pony before setting out again, though they appeased Butterbur with the promise of King’s messengers riding down the Greenway and the Rangers returning to guard the Wild.

It was just about apple-harvest time, Sam estimated, when they rode up to the border of the Shire, and found a gate blocking their way, and two grim-faced hobbits with pitchforks standing beside it like guards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments feed the muses.


	40. Turn At Last To Home Afar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saruman and Wormtongue fell at Isengard, and never came to the Shire at all, but they are not the only troubles in the wide world, and the Rangers have been gone for nearly a year. The hobbits find that their adventure is not quite over yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Told you there was still some plot left in this thing! I do apologise for how long it took me to update, but this is an absolute whopper of a chapter so hopefully that will make up for it. I really could have split it in two, but I was bound and determined not to do that again, so here you are!

For a few moments, the four hobbits simply stared at the new gate and its attendants. It was so very unlike anything they had ever seen in the Shire before, and so much like so many things they had seen in the wide world beyond it, that at first they had the disorienting feeling that they had taken a wrong turning somewhere and come perhaps to one of the poorer villages of Rohan, or strayed into the land of the Dunlendings. But there was no mistaking that the guards were hobbits, and there was no mistaking Bree-hill behind them.

Merry and Pippin looked first at each other, then at Amrod and Amras. The two elves shrugged their shoulders as though to say, "We are strangers here." Finding no guidance there, the hobbits looked back at the gate. The guards gazed back at them impassively, with no sign of recognition in their eyes. 

Merry was the first to break the silence. "Here, you two," he said, "what on earth do you think you’re doing? You look a right pair of ninnyhammers, playing with those silly pitchforks. Put them down and open the gate, for goodness’ sake. We’re not robbers. We’re bound for Hobbiton, and we mean to make the Golden Perch by nightfall. Go on now!"

The taller and heavier of the two guards deigned to look at the company before him for the first time, and shouted back a little more loudly than necessary, "The Golden Perch is closed, orders from the Chief, and the gates close at nightfall. If you came outa the Shire you oughta know that. Anyhow we don’t know ye, so go on yerselves! If ye’ve got business with the Chief ye can come in tomorrow and wait with all the others."

Pippin’s face had been growing darker with wrath the longer the guard spoke. Now he rose in his stirrups and said in a clear voice, "Have a care how you speak. We ride in the company of Frodo the Ring-Bearer, the Nine-fingered, and Samwise the Stouthearted, heroes of the War of the Ring, who destroyed Sauron the accursed, friends of King Elessar of Gondor and Maedhros, High King of the Noldor. Even the great gates of Minas Tirith open at their word, and shall a pair of country bumpkins with pitchforks bar their passage? Open this gate at once, or you shall answer to me and my companions!"

Such was the clear assurance in his voice, and the wrath in his eyes, that the two guards wavered visibly and drew back a step, though he had made no gesture to threaten them. Amrod and Amras exchanged glances of surprised approval. "We don’t know nothing about no heroes or no war," the second guard said in a more conciliatory voice. "The only Frodo we knows of is gone missing these eight months from Hobbiton, and he hadn’t no nine fingers. We’re not looking for trouble, now, just doin’ as we was told, see?"

Merry and Pippin exchanged glances once more, then looked back over their shoulders at the waiting elves, who nodded their acknowledgement. Turning back to face the guards, Merry said, in a ringing voice that must have carried well beyond the gate, "Amrod, Amras, these fellows of no courtesy seem to have misunderstood their duties. Of your courtesy, pray relieve them of those duties."

The twins dismounted from their tall horses at once, and strode towards the gate. They were more than twice the height of even the taller of the guards, tall enough to see over the gate without aid, and the setting sun caught in their hair and kindled fire in their eyes. The guards dropped their pitchforks and dove into the scraggly hedge that bordered the gate on either side. Amrod and Amras each seized a side of the gate by the boards that crossed its top. With a single heave, the doors burst asunder and fell into the road. Amrod and Amras bowed low before Merry and Pippin with only the faintest of smiles, and waved them through. 

The hobbits rode on, followed by Cûlegyr with the horses, and looked out over the golden fields of the Shire — or the fields that should have been golden. As it was, the setting sun revealed a rather dismal sight. The road which opened before them was untended and full of potholes. The fields and hedges that surrounded it were unkempt and trampled. Here and there smoke rose on the horizon, a dark and unpleasant smoke that reminded Pippin of the burning houses on the Pelennor Field. A guard-house of ugly, pale brick stood beside the ruined gates, and outside it lounged six or so rough-looking and slovenly men. At least at first glance they looked to be men. Upon a closer inspection, there was something decidedly inhuman in the cast of their eyes and the queer, twisted shape of their faces. "More than half like Orcs," said Pippin grimly. "Like that stranger in Bree all those months ago."

"Like many I saw at Isengard," Merry answered.

The appearance of a party of armed strangers had thrown the orc-Men into confusion. Several of them scrambled for the large, clumsy swords that lay in a heap by the guardhouse door. The tallest, however, armed with a heavy club and a whip at his belt and being either bolder or more stupid than the rest, swaggered up to the intruders and leered up at them fearlessly. "You!" he said. "What do you think you’re doin’ here, gate-breaking? The Chief’ll hear about this, and it’ll be a dozen apiece at the least for you all, and that’s if you don’t make no more trouble!"

"A dozen what, pray?" asked Merry icily. "Lashes with that little whip you carry? I hardly think that that will suffice against those who have faced a Balrog’s whip of fire. Now make way, or be ridden down. I do not know what devilry is at work here, but this is our home in which you stand, and you shall not hinder us!"

The tall Man yelled, "At 'em, boys!" just as Merry spurred his pony forwards and drew his sword, Pippin beside him and the three Elves at his heels, a cry of "The Shire!" on his lips. 

An instant later the Man was dead, his head cloven to the throat by Merry’s sword. Another fell to Pippin’s blade the next moment, and the rest of the ruffians scattered before the Elves had so much as drawn their swords. They had been set to guard against hobbits and perhaps one or two men of Bree, not against grim warriors in bright mail with burning eyes and keen swords.

"Well," said Amras, grinning, "you certainly know how to make guests welcome here."

The two hobbit-guards from outside had managed to crawl through the hedge by this time, and now stood by the ruins of their gate looking bedraggled and very much surprised. The smaller of them wore a look of dawning relief as he gazed on the results of the skirmish. Pippin took them in at a glance, and said, "I don’t know what’s going on here, but I don’t much care for it. Now we came looking for fire and food, and since the inns are closed if you’re be believed, you two can make us welcome in the guardhouse while you explain what in Middle-Earth is happening!"

Not daring to resist, the two hobbits led them into the guardhouse. The inside was just as dismal as the outside: there was neither paint nor panelling over the brick walls, and the table bore no cloth and had not been scrubbed for months, but there was a store of firewood laid beside a mean little grate, a barrel of beer standing by the door, and some hard bread on the table. "A right cheery place you have here," Merry observed to the guards, "but it’s a roof over our heads and for tonight that will do. Here," he added, seeing a number of pieces of dirty paper tacked to the wall, "what’s this?"

"The rules," said the first guard sullenly.

Merry snatched the paper down, ran his eyes over it, and handed it to Pippin, who read it in turn, his face drawing into a deeper scowl the longer he looked at it. "Well," he said when he had finished, in a deceptively light voice, "we’ve already broken the rules about obeying the guards and respecting the guardhouse, so I shall break Rule 3 and build a proper fire. The food here doesn’t look worth eating, but we’re used to looking after ourselves. Amrod, Amras, Cûlegyr, this is not exactly the hospitality of the Shire that you were led to expect, and I’m sorry for that, but perhaps for tonight you will forgive some less than ideal accommodations?"

"Certainly," said Amrod graciously, kneeling down to help Pippin and Sam disregard Rule 3.

"And while we work," said Pippin, glancing at the guards who still stood awkwardly by the door, "you two can tell us what’s going on here."

"I don’t rightly know," said the shorter of the two guards. "But it all started with…"

The taller cut him off. "You keep a still tongue in your head, Hal Cobb. You know better than to go blabbing about to strangers, or you ought to! The Chief don’t hold with that kind of thing."

"The Chief wouldn’t know about it if some people weren’t snitches," Hal retorted hotly. "It all started a month or two after Master Baggins left, Master…" he trailed off inquiringly.

"Took," said Pippin. "Peregrin Took. This here’s Merry Brandybuck. Frodo and Sam we introduced already. Our companions are Lords Amrod and Amras of the Noldor and Captain Cûlegyr of Lothlórien."

"Right then," said Hal, looking a little out of countenance and sketching a hesitant bow in the direction of the Elves. "Just after Master Baggins sold Bag End, in fact. There’d been funny folk coming and going over the border for some time, secret-like, but a month or so after Master Baggins left they started coming in in earnest. Lotho Sackville-Baggins — Pimple we called him — he’d been having some truck with them or other for quite a long time, it turned out, sending away pipeweed and such and getting gold back for it, but sooner or later they stopped bothering with him and just did as they pleased. And it seems that what they please is cutting down trees and trampling fields and eating what they leave, and if anyone don’t like it they’re driven out of their holes or just plain disappear."

By this time Sam had taken Pippin’s place by the fire, and was singing softly to it (to Hal’s obvious surprise), but at this he looked up to say, "Hasn’t nobody done more than 'not like' these doings? It’s orc-work, is what it is."

Hal was warming to his theme now. "Oh yes. The Tooks took a right exception to the Men early on. And The Took, he said that if anyone was going to be playing Chief at this hour —that was what Lotho was taking to calling himself, though I doubt if it’s still who they mean by it — it’d be the right Thain of the Shire and no upstart. The men don’t go to Tookland, and if they do the Tooks hunt 'em. The Tooks are lucky, you know, having those Great Smials to hole up in. But nobody much gets in or out of there these days."

"Good for the Tooks," said Pippin, who had been tearing down copies of the Rules from the walls and tossing them merrily into the fire.

"And the Master of Buckland’s been causing a bit of trouble of late too. The Men went to Brandy Hall to take him to Hobbiton, but they found the Brandywine Bridge cut and Bucklebury Ferry with no ferry-boat. Nobody in our bit of the Shire knows much about what happened after that, but they set out 'round the Hedge with a fair party, and there weren’t near as many of 'em when they came back. Not much news comes out of there either now."

"Well it’s about time someone did," Merry said firmly. "This has gone quite far enough, and the more I hear about it the less I like it. I shall go to Buckland and see what news they have. Pippin?"

"Tookland for me," said Pippin with a smile. "It’s my turn to break a siege, though hopefully I shan’t meet any Nazgûl. Frodo, Sam, you’d best get to Hobbiton and find out what can be learned there. I daresay you can stay with Sam’s gaffer."

"Or with Farmer Cotton," said Sam, looking up again from his saucepan. "He’s a right stout fellow and I can’t see him going along with no orc-nonsense."

"Excellent," said Merry. "Now, gentlemen," he said, turning to the Elves, "I think it would be just as well if one of you were to go with each party, in case we were to meet some unexpected resistance." Amrod and Amras bowed their assent, and Merry continued, "Which of you is to go where, I shall leave to your discretion."

Amrod and Amras looked at one another and shrugged. "It matters little to me," said Amras, "nor do I know aught of the lay of the land or its people that would help me to judge where I shall be of the most use to you."

"Well then," said Pippin, "Perhaps Amras would like to come join me in Tookland for a little hunting! It seems to have become quite the popular pastime of late."

"Gladly," said Amras.

"Then I will accompany Meriadoc to Buckland and see what can be seen," said Amrod. "Cûlegyr, you will go with Frodo and Sam to Hobbiton, and look to their welfare as you would mine."

Cûlegyr looked up from Sam’s fire, which he had been watching with some interest, for songs of power, even ones so minor as this, were no longer quite so commonplace to the rest of Middle-Earth as they were to Curufin, to acknowledge this. Then he looked at the doorway, and asked Hal, "Where is your surly compatriot?"

It turned out that the taller hobbit had disappeared at some point during their conversation. Frodo shrugged when Merry and Pippin were inclined to berate themselves for letting him go. "Four of those Men by the door already escaped," he pointed out, "and they will doubtless carry the news of our arrival to their masters in any case. One more hobbit will make little difference."

"Well," said Sam, "it’s just as well that nobody bothered to set up anywhere to meet before he disappeared."

"Quite right, Sam!" said Merry. "But we’d best check outside the door and windows first."

The little court of the guardhouse was quite empty, and some summary rattling of staves around the outside of the windows turned up no eavesdroppers. "Excellent," said Pippin. "Then what do you all say to the Green Dragon, three days from now? The ale may not be there but we all know the way well enough."

"The Green Dragon it is then," said Merry, and that was that. Shortly afterwards, the hobbits, including Hal, settled down for the night, though only after dragging the table over so that it lay before the door. The Elves stepped outside to watch, for they had less need of sleep than the mortals.

The night passed uneventfully, and when the hobbits rose early that morning, there was no sign that their commandeering of the guardhouse had been noticed, so they stayed long enough for a quick breakfast. Hal looked rather shocked at how little they ate; having been so long on the road they had grown accustomed to much shorter commons than most hobbits would consider comfortable. After their breakfast, they packed up promptly and split up into their parties. 

Hal would have attached himself to them, for he was silently in awe of all four newcomers, having seen Sam’s fire-song and gotten a few tales of the War of the Ring out of the Elves the night before, but Pippin sent him to the nearest hobbit-holes to quietly pass the news that the guardhouse had been emptied and there were newcomers who intended to raise the Shire. "Tell them all to get their pitchforks and shovels together — anything that will do for a weapon. Anyone that has bows should carry them. Anyone that has a sword or a shield over their mantelpiece should make it ready to use as well as they can. Tell folk to make for Hobbiton, quiet-like, keeping off the road, and meet outside the Green Dragon at evening three days from now. That’ll be where the main body of these ruffians is, or my name’s not Took."

"It is by all reports," Hal put in. 

"You don’t happen to know how many of them there are?" Merry asked.

"Nobody’s right sure. They come and they go, and nobody looks too close at 'em, or they disappear."

"Well, we’ll go looking," said Sam firmly, "and I’d like to see them try to make us disappear."

"Don’t tempt fate too much, Sam," Frodo rejoined gently. 

"They’ll try whether we tempt fate or no, Master Frodo," Sam answered. "But with this company we’ll be too much for them all right."

"Hear, hear!" said Merry. 

"We won’t get anything done if we stand here jawing all day," said Pippin, mounting his pony. "And I for one am ready to go hunting!"

Amras followed him as they set their horses’ heads towards Tookland, waving jauntily to those who remained as they rounded the corner.

"We’d best follow," said Merry. "There may not have been any trouble here yet, but those Men will come looking for us sooner or later, and the longer we stay in one place the sooner they’ll find us. As Cousin Frodo says, there’s no need to tempt fate more than we need to — and besides I had rather be the one to decide when we meet those ruffians next."

He turned his pony’s head back towards the shattered gate, for there was no way over the Brandywine with the bridges burned, but the Buckland Gate might be open to Merry, and there was besides the little private entrance under the High Hay that led into the Old Forest, though even with Amrod there to help he would have preferred to stay out of the Old Forest. That left Frodo and Sam and Cûlegyr to take the main road to Hobbiton together. 

They rode for the most part in silence, for Cûlegyr was not accustomed to Hobbits, and Frodo and Sam were not accustomed to Elves other than the Sons of Fëanor, who were somehow at once more and less separate from mortals than the other Elves they had known. They displayed, at times, a power that only Gandalf seemed to be able to rival, but they held no reserve between themselves and men or hobbits: they had no need to, for no-one could ever forget the insurmountable gap that lay even between them and other Elves. Cûlegyr of Lórien was not of a country that welcomed strangers, and a kind of reserve had fallen upon him now that he found himself alone with the hobbits. Finally, however, he asked Sam, "How did you come to learn the tongue of fire, Samwise?"

Sam was quite ready to tell him of Curufin and the fire-song, and from there the conversation went on over quite a number of subjects, from the lost beauty of Lothlórien for which Cûlegyr still mourned to the nature of songs of power and the music that had sung the world into being. And so they rode along quite merrily, until, as they rode up to the building that had once housed the Golden Perch, whose doors were now boarded shut, they came upon a sort of improvised barrier which bore the legend "NO ROAD," manned by nearly a score of hobbits with feathers in their hats. Bemused, Frodo and Sam drew up their ponies and looked over the awkward little company, not sure what to make of them. Cûlegyr, following their lead, reined his horse in and said nothing. 

The silence was broken by one of the feather-hatted hobbits, who stepped out in front of the barrier, cleared his throat, and announced, "You can’t come any further. You’re under arrest in the name of the Chief."

"Indeed?" Frodo asked. "And what authority does this Chief have to arrest hobbits going about their business in the Shire?"

"You’re under arrest," the hobbit continued as though he had not heard, "for gate-breaking, resisting the Chief’s men, and disregarding the Rules. You’re to come with us to Hobbiton at once, or we are to bring you by main force."

Frodo looked round at the assembled hobbits once more. None of them bore arms, and certainly none of them could have matched Merry and Pippin’s warlike bearing. If Cûlegyr’s sudden coughing fit was any indication, he, too, had come to the conclusion that if the three riders simply kept moving the band of hobbits would be entirely powerless to stop them. "Well," said Frodo, "I was going to Hobbiton in any case. You may arrest me if you like, and if you can keep up."

And with that he urged his pony forwards. The "NO ROAD" barrier was hastily hauled out of the way, and the hobbits gathered about the riders like a sort of honour guard as they continued towards Hobbiton. They checked their pace a little, but not much, and some of the fatter hobbits were huffing and puffing before long as they tried to keep up. Meanwhile, Sam had been looking about him at their escort, and now he called out, "Here, Robin Smallburrow! What are you doing with this lot?"

Robin Smallburrow, with a wry glance at the hobbit who seemed to be the chief, fell back to walk beside Sam’s pony. "I know you, Robin," Sam went on once he was close enough to talk to comfortably, "you’d rather see the inside of an alehouse than the outside yourself! What are you doing arresting folks for gate-breaking because they wanted to get home quick?"

"I can’t help it, Sam," said Robin. "The Shirrifs goes where they’re sent these days, and no back-talk allowed."

"Well why don’t you give this up then, if the Shirrifs are sent out for no good now? Stop Shirrifing!"

"It’s not allowed," Robin said unhappily. "If you give up being a Shirrif they send the Shirrifs after you, and there’re more of 'em now than there ever were afore you left. Hundreds. They drag you up to Hobbiton to the Chief’s Men and then you’re not heard from again. I’ve known some folks what tried, but you don’t hear from them neither way, and the rest are all scared now. Those that don’t feel themselves important," he finished with a glance at the chief Shirrif.

"If I hear 'not allowed' one more time, I’m liable to get angry," Sam replied hotly.

"It wouldn’t be a bad thing if you did, not by my mind," Robin said, lowering his voice. "If enough folks got angry all at once something might be done!"

"We mean to do something," Sam said grimly but softly. "We’re raising the Shire, me and Mr. Frodo. Merry Brandybuck and Pippin Took, they’re with us too, though I can’t rightly say where they’re going, not with all these ears around."

"There’re those of us in the Shirrifs who wouldn’t be too sorry to see that," said Robin. 

Conversation rather lagged after that, for the Shirrifs were hot and their feet were sore, and the riders showed no signs of halting, excepting their brief pause for lunch. At the Three-Farthing Stone they gave it up: they had marched more miles since that morning than most of them had ever gone in one day before. Frodo and Sam and Cûlegyr rode on, through a country that was growing more and more unfriendly the nearer they grew to their homes. Gardens were overgrown or trampled, trees were felled, and many hobbit-holes stood empty, their doors half open or broken down. Sometimes blood stained the thresholds. Smoke rose from several large, unfriendly buildings made of the same pale brick as the guardhouse by the gate. There were shadows in Frodo’s eyes as he looked around at the wasted land. Sam put into words what they were both feeling as they rode up to the edge of the Water, now running foul with nameless sludge that seemed to come from a building that stood over the stream where the old mill had once been. "It’s worse than Mordor," he said, "and I never thought I’d say that. But Mordor was only ever Mordor that we knew, and this was home."

"The Enemy has ever taken the greatest pleasure in spoiling what is fair," Cûlegyr said sorrowfully. Neither Frodo nor Sam doubted that he was thinking of burned Lórien.

Just then something moving near one of the empty hobbit-holes caught Cûlegyr’s eye, and he hissed a soft warning to Frodo and Sam. They rode on with wary glances, and then just as they turned a corner on the road to Bag End, Cûlegyr’s long arm shot out into the hedge and there was a yelp and a thud, and a young hobbit was lying in the road before him. "Young Tom Cotton!" said Sam. "What in the name of wonder are you doing here?"

"Shhhhh!" hissed Young Tom. "Keep quiet. What are you lot doing here, riding through Hobbiton towards the Hill just before dark, bold as brass? You’ll be shot!"

"By whom? I have seen no archers," Cûlegyr said.

"They won’t have noticed you yet," Young Tom answered. "They’re all up by The Hill. But if you keep going the way you’re going, with no permission and out near curfew, they’ll shoot you sure as sure when you cross The Water."

"Well," said Frodo, "we have been looking for you, Tom Cotton, or rather for your father. Can you take us to him?"

"Keep your voices down!" Tom repeated. "Aye, I can take you to him, but we’d best go quietly by a side way. Those horses of yours are hard to miss otherwise."

The company dismounted, and Young Tom led them to a narrow path that looked more like a sheep-track than something even hobbits would use. As the sun was setting, the path led them out into a well-tended field surrounded by an unkempt hedge. "We’re on Dad’s land now," said Tom in a more natural voice. "We let the hedge grow all unruly-like and made sure the house looked a bit out of repair, and the Men mostly leave us alone now, but you can’t be too careful."

"Tom!" A voice called out in a soft but carrying tone. "What are you doing coming back at this hour? And who’s that with you?"

"Friends, Dad," Tom called back. "It’s Sam Gamgee and Frodo Baggins and some sort of Man. There weren’t time for introductions but it’s them right enough, and Sam recognised me as soon as his Man friend hauled me out of the hedge."

"Well come along out of the open then. You can hobble your ponies in the field back here and the house’ll hide 'em. We’ll talk inside."

There was a rough and ready entrance into the half-buried back kitchen of Farmer Cotton’s house, that had clearly been dug recently and was grown over with tall grass in such a way that anyone not looking very carefully would think it was no more than a hollow in the earth. The hobbits went inside, followed by Cûlegyr. Tolman Cotton, Tom for short, was sitting at the table with his family around him, and several other hobbits as well — among them Gaffer Gamgee, who looked no worse for his removal, though his face screwed up into an odd expression when he saw Sam, dressed as he was in travelling clothes made for him in Gondor with a sword girt at his waist. He, however, and the rest of the kitchen’s occupants other than the Cotton family, rose and left when Tolman said it was time to discuss business. 

Rosie Cotton, Tolman’s oldest daughter, looked to Sam at once too, but she seemed quite pleased with what she saw. Sam met her eyes and blushed. 

"It’s right good to see you lot, Master Baggins," said Farmer Cotton. "Folk thought you was dead, disappearing like that out of Buckland. But who’s your new friend?"

"Captain Cûlegyr of Lothlórien," Frodo answered. "He rode with us on the way back. Merry Brandybuck and Pippin Took were with us too, and two more of his people, but they’ve gone to Buckland and Tuckborough to find out how things are. They will return to Hobbiton at evening two days from now."

"And you and Master Samwise and Master Cûlegyr came here to do the same."

"So we did."

"What do you know of the set of things here then?"

"Only what the fellows by the gate told us," Sam answered. "That and Robin Smallburrow. We knows a deal about the whole Shire but precious little about Hobbiton. Seems nobody rightly knows what’s happening here."

"There’s some who knows," Young Tom put in. "But we’re careful not to let it go too far. The Men don’t like it when word gets out, and they’re apt to burn first and ask questions after. The Sackville-Bagginses got a little too nosy a few months ago and they ain’t been heard from since."

"I thought it was Lotho at the centre of all this," Frodo said.

"He weren’t never at the centre," Farmer Cotton said. "Thought he was, maybe. But he was only ever the gate. Anyway it’s old Lobelia what Young Tom means. Properly feisty, that one. Wouldn’t let nothing keep her away from the Hill, for all that that’s where the Men set up their headquarters and did all their business, and for a few weeks they didn’t hinder her. But then I reckon she asked one too many questions."

"What happened?" Frodo asked, more concerned for Lobelia’s fate than he would ever have expected to be. 

"She up and disappeared, and that was that," Cotton answered. "And her old hole and half the fields around it was burnt and trampled. Said they was looking for spies, they did, when they did it. But I reckon it never had aught to do with more than just cruelty."

"Summat’s got to be done," Sam said grimly.

"So it has," said Frodo. "If we had not known that before we would be sure of it now. But there is a great deal still that we don’t know."

"There we can help you," Cotton said. "What do you need to know?"

Rosie looked at Sam in admiration as he and Frodo and Cûlegyr looked over crude hand-drawn maps with her father and discussed tactics and numbers and the movements of the Men, and talked of which families of Hobbits could be trusted to help. The last was a large category, which encouraged the new arrivals. "Most folks’d do something if only they knew what to do," Cotton said, shaking his head. "But the Shire ain’t seen this sort of thing for time out of mind. Show 'em how to fight and they’ll fight."

"I hope there need not be too much fighting," said Frodo sadly. "I hoped to leave the war behind when I came to the Shire."

"There’ll have to be some, begging your pardon, Mr. Frodo," Sam answered. "Those Men aren’t going to leave without a fight. You heard about Isengard."

Cûlegyr nodded. "They may only be half-orcs," he said, "but I know this breed of brigand. They will not go peaceably, though they may flee a show of force once or twice when their numbers are small. Sooner or later they will all gather together and deem themselves strong enough to overwhelm any challengers. Then they will have to be overcome by main force. Once that resistance is broken, however, they will fall."

"Then let’s get to it," Sam said.

The Cotton family had been well-connected and respected in Hobbiton since time out of mind. Since the Men had arrived, they had only grown more so. The hobbits who were turned out of their holes came to the Cotton house. The young daredevils who went close to the Mens’ bounds reported what they saw to the Cottons. It was all that Frodo and Sam could wish for in their quest to raise the Shire. With occasional suggestions from Cûlegyr with regard to tactics, but mostly under the hands of Sam and Farmer Cotton, their plan took shape.

Once the maps were rolled up and stowed again in the chimney, Farmer Cotton turned to Sam with a grin. "About time you showed up," he said. "Rosie hasn’t talked of much else these months you were gone! Never did believe you and Mr. Frodo were dead, did she, and what do we find but she was right all along."

Sam shuffled his feet nervously, but looked immensely pleased by this, even though he had no chance to speak to Rosie other than to say "good evening" before the household retired to bed.

The next morning she and Sam could be seen speaking to each other in the little kitchen garden out behind the house, the one that the Men had not yet noticed because it was hidden behind the unkempt hedge. When they returned, Sam looked shyly pleased and Rosie was smiling all over her merry face. 

Then, over breakfast in Farmer Cotton’s kitchen, preparations for the raising of the Shire and the retaking of Hobbiton began in earnest. Messages were sent out and received. Pitchforks were carefully examined for sound handles and sharp tines. Hunting-bows were oiled and arrows were fletched. Careful young hobbit-scouts went as close as they dared to the Mens’ pickets and reported back all the fragments of talk they could hear. Frodo, though he listened keenly to all that went on, spoke but seldom, leaving most of the planning again to Sam and Cûlegyr, for Farmer Cotton, though he had learned much of the gathering of news in a hostile land, still knew very little of battle. 

The next day passed in an air of tense waiting. Every few minutes Young Tom got up to look out the window and see if there was any sign of Merry or Pippin, even though he knew as well as the rest that they could not be expected to come in sight until the afternoon. Sam stepped in and out to assist with preparations in Hobbiton, seeing to it that the stout hobbit yeomanry knew their places and helping to get the carts and rubbish that would be used as a barricade into their places. Frodo remained with Farmer Cotton, as did Cûlegyr, whose presence they wished to keep as much of a secret as possible, for he was the one whom the Men would likely fear the most, and his sudden emergence might serve to halt any resistance on the part of the local garrison of ruffians.

For it had been determined that there were only about thirty of them, perhaps, in Hobbiton at present, while perhaps a hundred or two more — it was difficult to be sure of their numbers, and so the hobbits assumed them to be greater than was likely — were out in the wider Shire, attempting to keep peace, "and doing a pretty poor job of it," as Farmer Cotton observed, for it was clear from what they had learned from his informants that the ruffians might have some idea of how to conquer a country, but they certainly had no idea how to govern one.

As the sun began to draw towards setting, Sam sent off a handful of the young scouts away from Hobbiton, to catch Merry and Pippin as they rode in with their reinforcements and tell them the newest plans. 

The shadows were dark enough that a careful hobbit could move about the main square of Hobbiton without being noticed by incautious eyes by the time that their plan was put into effect, and a great bonfire roared into being within the town’s borders, though of necessity it was far enough from the Hill that it had not been noticeable before it was lit. Hobbits poured out of their holes, talking and laughing, in high spirits despite the risks they knew they were running, for they had been shut up and afraid in their homes for too long now, staying away even from their neighbours for fear that someone should inform on them to the Men, restless under the ruffians’ rule but unsure what to do. Now all the uncertainty had vanished. The moment the bonfire took a light, they were all committed to Sam and Farmer Cotton’s plans.

Just then there was a clatter of hooves and Merry and Pippin rode up together with Amrod and Amras, and behind them a dark mass of hobbits from Buckland and Tuckborough, armed variously with bows and staves and even a few swords. Frodo thought he recognised a few hats that had once had feathers on them to mark their owners as Shirrifs, but in the dimness he could not be sure, and there was little time for talk. "Excellent!" said Pippin when he saw the bonfire and the hobbits milling about. "This will bring them down on us all right, and we’ll be ready when they come!"

"Take up your places, you lot," Merry said to his company. "Into the shadows, quick and quiet! Be ready to fire if you need, but don’t loose an arrow or so much as clack your stave on the ground before the word. Got it?"

"Got it," said a chorus of voices, and the assembled hobbits began to disperse. 

"Master Amrod, Master Amras, would you two mind getting out of sight?" Sam asked. "The less they know of you the better if we have to surprise them proper-like later."

Amrod and Amras saluted him with identical grins and melted into the shadows like cats. "It’s not quite canny, that," said Sam thoughtfully, looking at the empty air where two elves had stood only a moment ago, though he did not look in the least disconcerted, as he had been in the company of the Eldar often and had grown accustomed to their ways in some measure.

"Useful though," said Farmer Cotton pragmatically, though he looked somewhat unsettled. 

"That it is," said Pippin, riding back up out of the dark. "Now you lot had better get behind the barricade. Come on!"

About ten minutes later, when it had just grown fully dark, a body of the ruffians came down from the Hill, just as the hobbits had expected. The merrymakers dispersed into their holes, and the armed hobbits who meant to stay drew back from the fire. They left Farmer Cotton and Merry, seemingly all alone, warming their hands at the dwindling blaze, for the autumn air began to have a chill in it.

"What’s all this?" the head ruffian shouted as he strode into the square with nearly a score of his fellows at his heels. "Back inside, all of you! Breaking the Rules, are you? Defying the Chief’s orders? Put that fire out, or I’ll have a dozen of you up to the Hill!"

When the last ruffian had entered the square, a pair of carts was shoved down behind them to make a crude barricade, and armed hobbits silently filed out behind it, led by Pippin, who had added to his sword a short but stout bow and a quiver of arrows, one of which he laid on the string as soon as he had taken up his place. The Men did not seem to notice, intent on their prey standing by the fire. "Here, you!" the chief shouted, taking the whip from his belt and scowling at Farmer Cotton. 

"You’re not wanted here," Merry said coolly. "Go back to your home, wherever that may be. Leave the Shire alone, or it will be the worse for you."

The ruffian turned his attention to Merry and lifted his whip-arm. He fell with four arrows in his breast and was dead by the time his body struck the ground. The rest of the Men drew back in shock. "You," Merry said to the Man who stood nearest him. "You heard what I said. Take your fellows and go. We do not want bloodshed, but we do not fear you. Leave the Shire. Do not come back."

The ruffians laughed, but there was an uneasy note in it. "The way out’s quite clear," Farmer Cotton said, indicating the road running south out of Hobbiton. "You’ve only to take it and leave safe and sound. We’ll not bother you unless you come back."

There was more laughter at that. The shock of seeing their commander fall was wearing off, and the brigands’ fickle courage was mounting higher again. "Charge 'em, boys!" one of them shouted.

Merry’s sword was in his hand almost the moment the order was given. Pippin’s archers loosed their arrows at the same moment, and keen hobbit eyes sped all of them to their intended targets. Several of the Men fell then and there. The new leader — or at any rate the one who had given the order to charge — howled, clutching at his bleeding and useless hand, to which Merry’s sword had severed all the tendons. The rest dropped their weapons at once. 

Seven of the ruffians had fallen. Thirteen remained to be bound and put under guard until morning — in one of their own sheds that lay nearer to the outskirts of Hobbiton. "A job well done," said Sam, looking in satisfaction on the field of battle.

"Well done indeed," said Amras, appearing out of the darkness nearly at his elbow. "Let us hope that the remainder of the plan meets with no greater obstacles."

"We had better post a guard to make sure of that," said Amrod, "lest the Men in your Hill take it into their heads to go looking for their missing comrades by night."

"Do you think that’s likely?" Farmer Cotton asked. He had taken after the other hobbits’ matter-of-fact speech with the Elves and treated them as nearly like equals as he could manage, though he had not yet mastered his awe of them.

"No," said Amras, "but it is possible, and if they grew desperate enough, or managed to free their fellows, they might do much ill before they were stopped."

"Quite true!" said Pippin, returning from having seen the prisoners bound locked up in the shed. "I’ll set some of my hobbits to it, to look after the shed and the Hill both."

Then, as it was growing late and the folk of Hobbiton, not used so much to battle and adventure, were weary from their excitement and labours, they retired for the night. Farmer Cotton and his guests did not return to his house, for it was some minutes’ ride from Hobbiton and they wished to be at hand should some emergency arise. Instead they made their night’s camp in one of the abandoned hobbit holes. It was a sad sight, with the furniture broken and overturned, books lying on the floor and papers mildewing, but the chimney would still draw, and they slept comfortably enough on the floor about the fire, even though they could not quite help wondering who the inhabitants had been and what had happened to them.

The next morning they held a brief council of war over a cold breakfast, and agreed to move on the Hill at once. "If this is indeed their centre of command, to take it back will confuse all their operations elsewhere," Cûlegyr said, "not to mention its effect on their morale."

"They’re not a well organised lot, these ruffians," Farmer Cotton warned, "which mostly doesn’t work in their favour, but it might this time. But what you say about it discouragin’ em is true enough. We’ll have to hope that’s enough."

"If it’s not, we’ll just have to deal with them the simple way," Merry said, not looking overly grieved at the prospect.

"I hope it does not come to that," Frodo said quietly. "The more we rely on our arms the more likely it is that some Hobbits will fall. And I would rather see this done entirely without bloodshed if it were possible."

"But it’s not," Merry said, gently but firmly. "You won’t save the Shire just by being shocked and sad, my dear Frodo. These ruffians are armed, and there are many of them — perhaps as many as two hundred, if Farmer Cotton’s sources are to be believed — still loose in the Shire. Sooner or later we will simply have to fight them and fight them properly."

"I know," Frodo answered. "But still, let us shed as little blood as may be."

"That we will endeavour to do," said Amras.

"That is all I ask," Frodo said.

From there the conversation turned to how soon they might expect the main body of ruffians to assemble and what they might do once they were assembled. "It’s possible that they won’t march on the Hill at all," Pippin said. "They might — they will, if they’re smart — hole themselves up somewhere defensible, raid the countryside around for food and to be a nuisance, and make us smoke them out."

"I do not think them to be a wise enemy," Cûlegyr answered cautiously.

"Neither do I," said Pippin, "but it’s a possibility we’ve got to consider. If they don’t turn up outside Hobbiton soon, we may need to worry about the other places they could be going to stir up trouble."

"It’s more likely, though," Merry said, "from how they behaved last night, that they’ll just march right on Hobbiton and try to beat us out by sheer force. In which case I think it would be best if we had already dealt with however many of them are still holed up in Bag End."

"Quite right," said Sam, who had been listening keenly, though he deferred now to their experience in war.

"They came right along the main road last night," Merry went on thoughtfully. "I wonder if we can persuade them to do the same when they’re entering instead of leaving Hobbiton?"

"I like the way you think, Merry," Pippin answered. "I bet we can. Some brush to simulate hedges and a few overturned carts and ditches. There are already banks alongside the road half the time, and of course the hobbit holes themselves make it harder to leave the road."

"Lead them in along the road and ambush them," Merry finished. "That’s our best hope of ending things quickly. If we overwhelm their resistance at once, striking from all sides, they might even surrender."

"That’s all good thinking, lads," said Farmer Cotton, "but hadn’t we better deal with whatever’s living in the Hill first?"

"Whatever? You say that as though there were something not quite human there, Tom," Pippin said, putting his head on one side.

"Nobody rightly knows what’s up there," Cotton answered with another shake of his head. "But there’s funny sounds that come out of there at night, and the Men guard it so careful-like that there’s got to be something. Perhaps it’s that Chief of theirs — they’re always giving orders in his name, but nobody’s ever seen 'im."

"Well, there’s nothing for us to do but ride up and find out what’s there," Merry said, shrugging. "If you," he added, turning to the Elves, "would come with us, we’d appreciate it. Whatever the ruffians were hiding up there, I doubt it is beyond your power to deal with it."

"We are at your service," Amrod said politely.

As soon as the breakfast dishes were cleared away, then, the hobbits mounted their ponies again, though the Elves chose to remain on foot the better to be out of sight, and they made their way towards the Hill. The folk of Hobbiton were out and about, and there was a clear difference already between the frightened hobbits who had bolted to their holes the instant the strangers appeared the day before and the diligent folk who were now clearing away weeds from their gardens and repairing run-down fences, who waved at the travellers as they rode past.

A small guard of archers from Tookland followed them, arrows on the string as they approached the bridge over the Water, but there was no sign of the ruffians. Indeed all was terribly quiet as they approached Bag End. They rode over the bridge warily, still waiting for something to happen and a trap to be sprung, but all remained quiet until they were in sight of Bag End. It was a sorry sight that they rode past, worse even than half-deserted, cowed Hobbiton. The trees of Bagshot Row had been cut down and many of them left to lie and rot. All the hobbit-holes nearby were deserted, many of them with their doors broken open, their front gardens neglected and surrounded only by dead and broken hedges. Weeds grew rank, but all other plants seemed to be dead. "They’ve cut down the Party Tree!" Sam exclaimed suddenly and miserably, and then burst into tears.

Harsh laughter answered him, and a tall orcish-looking Man stepped out from the rough fence that had replaced the low hedge around Bag End. "Not so high and mighty now, are you, little Shire-rats? See now, I’ve got thirty or so folk locked up in here, and my lads ready to start executin’ em as soon as I give the word, which I will the moment you get too close. Or the moment you try to run. So you’ll set those pretty little toys of yours down now, and we’ll let you stay alive. Might even let you out of the Lock-Hole after a few months if you’re good enough."

The hobbits halted in dismay. This was not anything they had expected. "What do we do now?" Sam asked, scowling anxiously at the Man, who was playing idly with a knotted whip and grinning at them unpleasantly.

Merry set his jaw. "We can’t flee and we can’t surrender. Only one thing for it. Amras, if you please, see to it that that ruffian does not give the word."

The Elves had stayed near them as they walked, half-hidden among the hedges and little hills, and aided in their concealment in Amrod and Cûlegyr’s case by the cloaks of Lórien. The ruffian opened his mouth to say something, probably some further threat. An arrow silenced him forever.

"Now! Hurry!" Merry said, dashing towards the doorway. 

Whatever the ruffians had expected it clearly was not a charge. The two guards inside the door fell to Amrod and Amras, who were no less effective with their blades for having to bend double. The hobbits followed them in. Pippin beckoned to the Tooks who followed him to come up to the house, but the rest of the Men were nowhere to be seen. "How many more did Farmer Cotton say were here?" Pippin asked.

"No more than ten," Sam answered. "That leaves seven."

Merry and Pippin stood for a moment in thought. Frodo was looking around sorrowfully at the ruin of his home. The comfortable furniture was all broken or spoiled; books were knocked from their shelves and desks overturned. Sam, his face set in a miserable but determined expression, having noticed the locked doors to Bilbo’s guest rooms and pantries, was rummaging through the fallen guards’ pockets. Now he produced a large keyring and got to his feet, just as Cûlegyr, who had been listening intently with his head cocked to one side, spoke. "If they were in here we would know already," he said. "They would have come out, at least to threaten us further."

"I agree," Pippin answered. "Tooks! Come on." 

Ten or so stout young hobbits filed through the door, Robin Smallburrow — for Frodo had been quite right when he recognised some former Shirrifs in Pippin’s party — at their head. Pippin took the keys from Sam and handed them to him. "Get the doors open," he said, "and take the prisoners to Farmer Cotton’s. He’ll look after them. But be careful. There might be some unpleasant things in here as well as hobbits. Come on," he added to Merry and the elves, "we had better go looking for the rest of them. Cûlegyr’s right, I don’t think we’ll find them in here. Let’s see about their shed in the back."

But the shed proved to be empty. "Gone," said Merry, shaking his head. "To warn their cohorts, no doubt."

"Well, then, we know they’ll be coming," Sam replied, "and we’ll be ready."

"So we shall, Sam," Pippin said approvingly. "We’d best get to work! There’s no time to lose."

The prisoners were soon released from Bag End. There were more than thirty of them, in the end, among them Lotho (whom they found in the very back, looking unhappy indeed) and Lobelia Sackville-Baggins (who insisted on walking out on her own two feet, still clutching her umbrella, and quite unexpectedly found herself cheered by the waiting hobbits), Will Whitfoot the mayor, and many others who had fallen afoul of the Men for something or other. Not all those who had been taken were present, and Frodo and Sam, who had taken for themselves the work of looking after the freed prisoners, both feared that some had been killed, but Merry and Pippin held out hope of another prison elsewhere. This was not exactly a cheerful thought, but it served to urge the scouts to greater activities as they searched Hobbiton for any remaining Men.

Meanwhile Merry and Pippin, with the three Elves and Farmer Cotton, set themselves to preparing to receive the band of ruffians which they were certain was bound to arrive sooner than later. The folk of Hobbiton, aided by the Tooks and Brandybucks, set themselves to work with a will, and sang merrily at their labour. New songs were already beginning to crop up, telling of the Battle of Hobbiton, as they called it, and Captains Meriadoc and Peregrin, who commanded even the Elves. Merry and Pippin smiled as they listened, and Amrod and Amras laughed when they heard, but there was no malice in it. In this land, they were the strangers, and Merry and Pippin had more than earned the respect they had given, half-jokingly at first, but now sincerely. Amrod and Amras, and Cûlegyr who trusted them, were more than content to follow the hobbits’ lead.

The Battle of Bywater, as it was called in after years, took place almost a week after the liberation of Hobbiton. The hobbits split the intervening time between readying their improvised weapons and barricades, and clearing away rubbish from the fields and hobbit holes. In the course of the latter, they discovered that the missing hobbits who had not been discovered in Bag End had been imprisoned in two of the larger abandoned holes, and they were promptly released and sent, as always, to Farmer Cotton’s. One small group of younger hobbits, led by Farmer Cotton’s Jolly, followed their noses to a large cache of supplies that the men had plundered and hoarded in the basement of the Green Dragon. One hundred-thirty-seven barrels of ale, fifty-two bales of pipeweed, whole hams, ropes of sausages, crates of apples and dried vegetables, and more that had been collected as "taxes" were recovered and moved up into the main floors, and the Green Dragon triumphantly opened its doors once again. Merry and Pippin cautioned the hobbits against celebrating too early, but even they could not resist a flagon or two of ale when the kegs were breached. Amrod, Amras, and Cûlegyr were glad to eat more than the slender rations that had been their fare of late, but always kept an eye on the road. 

Toward evening on the seventh day after the first skirmish, nearly a hundred and fifty ruffians led by a large orc came marching straight up the main road to Hobbiton, just as Merry and Pippin had expected. "What do you scum think you’re doing?" the orc yelled, seeing the hobbits blocking the road. "Get back to your little rat-holes or we’ll kill the lot of you."

Pippin and Merry sat tall in their saddles, unmoved. 

"We’ll tell you what we told the others," said Merry. "Leave now and take your lives with you. Stay, and you’ll suffer the same fate they did."

The orc only roared in response and raised his sword. The men charged forward in a mass, swords drawn, faces twisted in hatred. Pippin drew his own sword and cried "NOW!" 

And with that, the trap was sprung. Nearly a hundred Hobbit archers, led by Merry and Pippin and supported by the three Elves, came out from their hiding places and let loose a volley that dropped nigh on a score of men in their tracks. Their charge wavered. Some turned to flee, but found a good hundred more of hobbits wielding pitchforks and the like, springing out all at once to surround them. The men made a brief effort to break through the barricade, but those who succeeded were quickly felled, and the appearance of the Elves, of which they had had no warning, did much to persuade them of the virtues of surrender. The orc roared once more and charged for a small group of hobbits at his right, only to be halted, forever, by Cûlegyr’s keen blade. 

“Do you suppose that’s their Chief?" Merry asked of Pippin after the battle, looking at the great orc that had led the ruffians in their final charge.

"Might as well be," Pippin said. "But if you ask me it was only ever a title for whichever of them had fought his way to command that week. Orcs are quarrelsome folk, but these had just enough Man in 'em, I daresay, to know that the hobbits would stay quieter if they thought there was some sort of big boss in charge, maybe even something not quite mortal. And of course Lotho, the proper old fool, had paved the road for them by calling himself that too."

"I don’t suppose it really matters," Merry agreed, "as long as he doesn’t show up again. The Chief, that is, not Lotho."

"Lotho won’t be calling himself Chief again, that’s for sure," said Robin Smallburrow, coming up at that moment.

And so the great Battle of Bywater ended. A few hobbits were wounded, but none were killed. The ruffians were bound and later, with their fellows, marched to the borders with a stern warning not to return — even Merry and Pippin had no wish to kill them in cold blood, however much they might deserve it. They scattered as soon as they were released, and if any of them came alive again out of the Wild then the stories do not tell of it.

A week or so later, after lending cheerful help to some of the worst of the labour of clearing Hobbiton, and joining a merry group in the Green Dragon to tell tales in the evenings, the Elves took their leave. "For," as Amrod said, "the guard of honour has seen the heroes of the War of the Ring safely back to their homes, and the heroes have seen those homes restored to their rightful owners. Your hospitality has been the most generous we could wish for, but we, also have work to do, and must return to our people."

The hobbits were sorry to see them go, even those who had not travelled with them. They had learned to love the merry twins, and the more sombre Cûlegyr as well, who worked so tirelessly beside them to free the Shire. Merry and Pippin accompanied the three elves to the border of the Shire, talking and laughing over old pranks and battles alike all the way. 

"I know you have work to do among your own people, but you must come back for Midsummer’s Eve if you can get free," said Pippin. "The whole Shire comes out to celebrate and there’s no end of opportunities for fun. And we’ll finally have a chance to cook you a proper hobbit supper!"

Amrod clasped his wrist in a warrior’s greeting. "There are few things that would give us greater pleasure, Peregrin Took, Knight of Gondor."

"Trust us," Amras joined in, "naught but a summons from the Valar could keep us away."

With that, they took their leave, and the two parties turned for their homes.

The departure of the elves left them feeling somewhat lonely, but there was little time to be overly grieved, for all over the Shire there was much work to be done.

There were no more battles. The ruffians were broken and had no leaders to rally around. There were hideouts, here and there, where three or four of them would hide and be a nuisance to the surrounding country, and had to be smoked out, but this was easily done. The real work was the rebuilding. Much had been accomplished by the cheerful folk of Hobbiton, but damage had been done that would take years to repair. And Sam grieved especially for the trees, for many of them had been cut and left to lie, and that would not be mended for generations to come. 

It was Cûlegyr who first suggested a way of mending this last hurt, before he departed with Amrod and Amras. "What of the Lady Galadriel’s gift?" he asked, as Sam looked gloomily out over the gravel pit that had once been Bagshot Row.

"What of it?" Sam asked.

"You grieve for the trees," Cûlegyr replied. "But it may be that the virtue she laid on her gift to you would help to heal that wound."

"Do you think so?" 

"I do indeed."

And so it was that all that winter Sam, atop the many other labours he bore as assistant to the Deputy Mayor — for Will Whitfoot did not feel up to taking up his office again after his time in the Lockholes, and so Frodo had taken on the title for a time and Sam, naturally, insisted on helping him — went to and fro that winter planting trees, and at the base of each he set a single grain of dust from the grey box which Galadriel had given him. And Rosie Cotton went with him, for she had seen his grief and knew that her presence brought him comfort, and Frodo watched them from the windows of Bag End where he worked as Deputy Mayor, and his heart was glad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I have finally broken the three-chapters-left barrier! Hurrah! Credit to Mr_Bultitude and Wishfulthinking1979 for beta reading.
> 
> Also, I have a Tumblr now - it's [WinterInHimring](https://winterinhimring.tumblr.com/). Come say hi if you like.


	41. The Grey Havens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some things do not change. The world may be set to rights, but not all wounds can be healed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished this shockingly early, so I'll go ahead and post it by way of an early Christmas present.
> 
> Merry Christmas!

The wedding of Sam Gamgee and Rosie Cotton was notable even in a spring that was full of weddings, and the new _mellyrn_ tree that grew in the Party Field where they had planted it together put forth a cloud of golden flowers on their wedding day. Their honeymoon was celebrated right through the summer, even as the newlyweds kept on working, along with the rest of the Shire, to rebuild what the Men had destroyed, and the trees Sam and Rosie had planted together that winter grew joyfully and swiftly. Gaffer Gamgee’s old hole at No. 3 Bagshot Row was one of the first to be rebuilt, but Sam and Rosie lived in Bag End, for Sam did not wish to leave Frodo even now, and No. 3 was rather small for the family they hoped to have. 

Frodo had retired his office of Deputy Mayor shortly after the wedding, for Will Whitfoot was now sufficiently recovered from his stay in the Lockhole, as Bag End had been called under the ruffians’ dominion, to take up his duties again. He faded quietly out of the public eye of the Shire — or he would have, had matters been left up to him. But he was known now as one of the four heroes who had come riding in with Elves of the Ancient Times, and the other three insisted on telling tales of his bravery at all opportunities, and so he found himself held in higher regard than he would have expected, especially once Merry and Pippin had departed for Gondor and Rohan once more and Frodo and Sam found themselves in the rather odd position of the Shire’s only two present living legends. But in general he lived quietly, except when entertaining visitors from Gondor, or Rivendell, or the Lonely Mountain, who appeared at Bag End occasionally, quite as unpredictably as Gandalf had once done, and brought with them quite as much excitement for the hobbits. Only Sam and Rosie knew that there were times of the year when his old wounds still pained him, for at such times especially he was careful to keep to himself.

It was three years to the day since the battle at Weathertop when a new visitor came riding up, on a grey horse, wearing a grey cloak, and Frodo, finding himself not so averse to this company as he had expected, opened his door to receive Maglor Fëanorion. Most of his brothers had come to visit at one time or another, but he had not traveled forth from Ithilien since the folk of Lórien had settled there and, with King Elessar’s blessing, made it their new home. Maglor looked long and keenly at Frodo as they exchanged their greetings, and finally, once he was settled in the kitchen of Bag End (a kitchen with a newly raised ceiling, for with so many tall guests Frodo had finally decided to enlist the help of a few stout young hobbits to carry out some changes to his hole), he said, "I come bearing other greetings than my own, Frodo, and I come bearing also an invitation."

"An invitation?" Frodo asked. He had been the recipient of many, but now that he had returned home, he found that he had little wish to travel, and so he had politely refused them. The Wild had more unpleasant than pleasant memories for him, and the memory of the way that his shoulder had hurt him as he rode under Weathertop on the way home was not one he wished to relive. There was a little part of him, too, that still feared that the Shire was unreal, and feared that if he rode forth he would not find it again. Even Rivendell and Bilbo’s company had not managed to tempt him to travel beyond Bree-Hill. 

"From Lady Galadriel, and Mithrandir, and myself," Maglor replied. "Lothlórien is destroyed and its ancient glory will never be restored, but we have, as you know, found a home in Ithilien, and begun to heal the hurts done there by Thauron. There many have found rest from the wars — folk of Gondor and Rohan as well as of Lórien. Should you wish it, there may be rest and healing for you there, among others who have also fought wars of the _fëa_ as well as the _hröa_. I know the weariness in your eyes, for it is much like my own."

And he held out his right hand for Frodo to see, still marked with the old scar of the Silmaril’s burn. "I have found healing in Ithilien," he said, "in what measure healing remains for me upon this side of the Sea. I came to give to you the same offer that was given to me."

And all at once Frodo knew what his answer would be. For in a world that seemed to be made half of shadows, Maglor was a flame, warm and unquestionably real, and his very presence seemed to drive away the cold ache in Frodo’s shoulder. "I’ll come," he said. "Thank you."

Maglor smiled at him, and sang a few notes to his fire that made the teakettle sing at once, and when Sam returned to Bag End from his day’s work, he found Maglor sitting cross-legged by the hearth with little Elanor on his lap, and Frodo in an armchair by the fire, and Rosie smiling at them all. He met Frodo’s eyes, and at once he understood.

Maglor was out in the garden, singing softly under the stars, and Rosie had put Elanor to bed, when Frodo came up to tell Sam. Sam spoke before he could. "You’re going away," he said a little sadly. "You’re going to stay with the Elves, like Mr. Bilbo."

"Yes, Sam," Frodo answered, not surprised now that Sam should have understood. "The world fades into shadows sometimes for me, but the Elves don’t. Maglor’s the only thing right now that doesn’t seem like my hand would go right through if I touched it. Maybe they can heal whatever’s the matter with me, and maybe I’ll come back someday, but for now I’m going back with him."

"You’ll come back and visit, now?" Sam asked.

"I shall be sure to. You and Rosie will have more children, and I will come back to see them, and you’ll be Mayor soon enough, and I’ll come back to see how the Shire flourishes with Samwise the Stouthearted to guide it."

Sam was put a little out of countenance by this speech, but after Frodo had turned away to retire to bed, he could be heard murmuring, "Samwise the Stouthearted. I like that."

Maglor stayed two weeks in the Shire, teaching Sam the songs of earth and plants as well as fire, tending to Frodo’s shoulder, and endearing himself to Rosie by helping her wash the dishes. At the end of the two weeks, Sam found Frodo packing his old knapsack and laying out his green travelling clothes that had been made for him in Gondor. The farewells were brief but heartfelt, for Frodo and Sam had in a way said their goodbyes already, though they knew that this was not the last time they would meet. Then Maglor sprang up onto his horse, bareback, and lifted Frodo up before him, and they were off over the Water at a brisk trot, and Frodo’s waving hand quickly disappeared into the autumn mists. He had taken almost nothing with him except his clothes, the Phial of Galadriel, and Bilbo’s Red Book.

He wrote to Sam regularly, though not often, and returned, as promised, when Frodo Gamgee was born, and his sister Rosie too, and when Sam was sworn in as Mayor, appearing with startling accuracy even though Sam was fairly sure that his letters, even with the new King’s post, had not arrived in time to inform him of the latter. He arrived, too, with Pippin’s party when he came back from Minas Tirith to marry Diamond of Long Cleeve, and stayed nearly half a year, moving about to visit friends in all corners of the Shire. 

The first time Frodo returned, Curufin rode with him, and, in his own way, made clear his pleasure at seeing Sam once more and meeting his family. After that the Elf would turn up at least once a year and stay for a few days to visit Sam. When Frodo came to congratulate Sam on his election as Mayor, it was Maedhros who accompanied him, much to the awe of the watching hobbits. Each time Frodo came to visit, Sam saw that the shadows in his eyes, though not gone, had lessened, and he looked well. But each time he went back to Ithilien in the end, and Sam knew that he would never return to live in the Shire for good.

Then, in the spring of the seventh year after the end of the War of the Ring, Sam looked out of the window of his study in Bag End one evening and saw a long procession of Elves bearing many banners winding up the road over the Water, and knew, as he had known that Frodo would leave with Maglor, that they were going to the Grey Havens, and that his master was with them. They halted by the path to Bag End, and Sam took his cloak from beside the door and went out to meet them. Elrond was there, with Maglor, and Galadriel, and Gandalf, and the three wore Celebrimbor’s Rings openly now. The other Sons of Fëanor were there also, but with the same wordless understanding that had come to him before, Sam knew that they were only there to see their brother and friends on their road, not to leave themselves, not yet. Frodo rode beside Bilbo, with Merry and Pippin a little way behind, and Merry and held the reins another pony, riderless, which Sam knew was for him.

He mounted wordlessly, and the long procession rode on once more in silence, save for the singing of the Elves. All through the night they rode, and through the next day. The Elves sang as the stars shone out brightly from the heavens, and as they went out from the Shire onto the North Downs, past the three towers beside the Sea, and at last, as the sun was setting (though Sam was not sure until after which day was ending, for time passed strangely on that journey), they came to the Grey Havens, and for the first time in his life Sam heard and smelled the Sea. But not for the last.

Círdan of the Havens awaited them beside a fair grey ship with white sails, with the prow fashioned like a sea-bird, and he greeted all gravely. The Sons of Fëanor bowed to him, and he to them, for they had met before of old, and he along with Maglor had endured all the long years since the First Age of the World. He would not sail yet, for there were yet Elves in Middle-Earth who wished to linger on with their new High King and his brothers, but he came to greet his passengers now, and bid them farewell.

Frodo dismounted from his pony and opened his pack, taking out the Red Book that he had carried with him to Ithilien. "Here, Sam," he said, breaking for the first time the silence in which they had ridden, "This is for you."

"You’ve finished it then?" Sam asked.

"Not quite," Frodo replied, and he smiled. "My story is finished, but yours is not. There are still a few pages to be written."

And Sam wept, for it came home to him for the first time that he would not see Frodo again, and Merry and Pippin wept likewise. And Frodo blessed them, and kissed each upon the brow, and looked upon them with a smile as he turned towards the grey ship. He bowed towards the Sons of Fëanor, and they bowed to him in turn. Maedhros and Curufin each went down upon one knee to take his hand, but no words were spoken. Then he was beside the ship. Círdan greeted him solemnly, and bowed to him, and ushered him aboard: the first passenger upon the ship to Valinor.

Then Maglor, who had bidden his brothers farewell, embracing each in turn, as Frodo had blessed his friends, turned to the hobbits, and bowed to them. "I am weary of this Middle-Earth," he said, "and not even friendship can hold me longer to this hither shore. The Sea has called me for many and many years, and at last the time has come for me to answer the call. But I do not value your friendship the less for that, and I shall sing of your deeds in Valinor, and the memory of Samwise the Stouthearted of the Shire, Meriadoc of Rohan and Peregrin of Gondor shall endure down the ages among the Noldor. It does not seem likely that we shall meet again until the breaking of the world, and so, until that time, I bid you farewell. Whatever blessing I have still to bestow goes with you. Namarië!"

And then he, likewise, turned and followed Frodo onto the ship. Gandalf stepped forward next, and leaned on his staff, and looked kindly at them. "I will not say do not weep," he said to them, "for not all tears are an evil. But recall that there is much still for you to do, and many friends who remain to you, and there will be healing for you also. I, too, shall remember you in Valinor."

He turned to the sons of Fëanor who remained, then, and said, "My lord Maedhros, my farewell to you and to your brothers is not so lasting as that to the hobbits. But I shall say it all the same. It was my honour to fight by your side against the greatest enemy of this Age." 

And he held out his left hand, and Maedhros clasped it. "Until we meet again," he said. "Bear my greetings to my mother and, if you meet him, my brother also, if you will."

"That will I gladly," Gandalf said. He clasped hands with each of the five Elves in turn, and with Cûlegyr also, for he still rode with Amrod, and then he boarded the ship.

At last, all those bound for Valinor were aboard the ship, and Merry and Pippin and Sam stood on the shore beside the five Sons of Fëanor, and watched as the grey ship slipped smoothly away from the long pier and out to the sea, where the east wind filled her sails and bore her away into the West, into the sunset, away from Middle-Earth. They watched until the ship vanished into the sun and the stars shone out from the sky, and then they mounted their horses and ponies and turned back to the Shire. The journey back was even more silent than the journey out, for with Maglor gone none of the Sons of Fëanor wished to sing, and the hobbits were not in a mood to sing a walking-song, but nevertheless each took comfort from the presence of the others. They rode up to Bag End together, and there they stayed for some days. It was a silent visit, but not the less comforting for it, and when Merry and Pippin set out again with the Sons of Fëanor, they waved a fairly cheerful goodbye to Sam, who was poring over the Red Book in the study, his children playing on the floor at his feet, as Rosie brought in a mug of tea.

_A few days later, and far to the west, a grey ship, swift and graceful as a dolphin, sailed along the Straight Road towards the white shores of Valinor. Frodo looked eagerly over the bows of his ship, and, to his surprise, saw a familiar figure standing on the pier beside a great hound, waving merrily, the bright sunlight gleaming brilliantly in his white-gold hair. Frodo scrambled down the rope ladder the instant it was thrown down, not bothering to wait for the plank that Círdan’s sailors put down as a courtesy to their passengers. The moment his feet touched the pier, he found himself nearly knocked down by the hound’s enthusiastic greeting. "Down, Huan!" Celegorm shouted, and steadied Frodo with a hand on his shoulder. "Welcome, Frodo!" he exclaimed, with a wide grin. "Come. My mother, and indeed all Valinor, waits to greet you."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technically, I could end the story here, but there are still a few pages left in this Red Book. Stay tuned for the epilogue!


	42. Epilogue: Snow After Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "So comes snow after fire, and even dragons have their endings." - Bilbo Baggins
> 
> Stories, as well as dragons, must end someday. Here is the end of this one.

In the years which followed the War of the Ring, there was much work for the Sons of Fëanor who remained. Maglor, while he remained upon the hither shore, worked most with the healers when he was not in Ithilien with Celeborn and Galadriel. But he had little heart for the labour of healing Middle-Earth after so long a sojourn in grief and loneliness, and so, when Galadriel and Gandalf sailed for Valinor with others who had grown weary of Middle-Earth and its sorrows, he accompanied them, and Elrond went with him for love of his foster-father. His brothers, however, were not yet weary of their newly reclaimed lives, and they set to work with a will in the many lands which had need of their aid.

Maedhros Fëanorion, High King of the Noldor in Exile, made his home in Gondor for the most part, for he was close in friendship with her Captain-General and her Steward from the beginning, and soon with her King as well. He was much beloved, also, of her historians and archivists, for he knew scripts and tongues that had long since passed out of living memory, and could often set straight the point of contention between feuding histories with a single word. But he by no means confined himself to the City. He rode often to visit his brothers and the other members of the Fellowship of the Ring; scarcely a month passed in which he did not give or receive some visit, whether personal or formal — for though few of the Noldor remained on the hither shore, few was not none, and Gildor Inglorion with his wandering company was only the first to swear his allegiance to his rightful King. 

The High King made many journeys, but only one of which this tale shall tell in detail, for it was such a journey as will never be made again in Middle-Earth until Arda is remade, and it was made by a party which rarely left Minas Tirith all together, not even for the greatest of occasions. Faramir the Steward, above all the folk of Gondor, had listened with joy to such few tales of his wars against Morgoth as Maedhros was willing to tell, and so it was partly for his benefit that the journey was made. His brother Boromir, the Captain-General, went with them both for love of his brother and his friend. And, named last, which is the place of honour, King Elessar rode with the party as well, for he and Maedhros honoured each other both as friends and rulers, and it was as both friend and High King that Maedhros rode towards Tol Himling.

It was many days’ ride to the isle that had once been the fortress of Himring, and the travellers halted often upon the way to greet their friends who lived near the road. Through Rohan they passed, and greeted Éomer King and his wife Lothíriel. After they passed the Misty Mountains, they halted for some days in Rivendell, for though Elrond had now departed, his sons Elladan and Elrohir remained to rule over those who had not sailed. These made a goodly company, and the Last Homely House was still, as ever, ready to welcome travellers. They stayed one night in the Prancing Pony at Bree, and Barliman Butterbur had the surprise of his life when Strider the Ranger came walking back through his doors clad after the fashion of a king and accompanied by two Men of Gondor and an Elf whose head brushed the ceiling-beams. The next morning they rode into the Shire, and looked in upon Meriadoc the Master of Buckland, and Peregrin the Thain of the Shire, and last but not least Samwise the Mayor of Michel Delving. 

When they arrived at last at the Grey Havens, Círdan and his folk greeted them and hosted them for the night, and tales were told that no mortal ear had heard in living memory, for Círdan was older even than Maedhros, and had lived upon the shores of the sea through all the long years since the First Age of the World, building ships and watching his folk sail away to Valinor that he had never yet seen.

At the Grey Havens they left their horses, for Tol Himling could not be reached without boats even at the lowest ebb, and though it would take them a day’s sailing at the least to reach it, there were no folk who lived nearer save the Dwarves of the Blue Mountains, and they did not build boats. Boromir and Faramir had learnt something of the handling of small boats in summers spent at Dol Amroth as boys, and Aragorn, Ranger of the Wild as he was, could in a pinch use nearly any form of transport. Maedhros, too, knew something of sailing, though he was loath to recall it (and indeed had not used this knowledge since before the loss of his hand). By common consent Maedhros took the tiller, for that could be managed with one hand, and Faramir, who had paid the most heed to his sailing lessons in Dol Amroth, took charge of the sails and directed the others as needed.

They beached their boat for the night with the isle clearly in sight but too far away to reach before sunset, and they built a fire of driftwood and supped on the provisions that Círdan’s folk had packed for them. The next morning they started early once more, to catch the wind that rose with the sun, and at midday they reached the cold and rocky island that was all that remained of Maedhros’ ancient fortress of Himring, and drew their boat above the reach of the tide, and climbed up past ruined walls to the summit of the island, where they looked about them at barren stone and mournful sea. The very sky had gone the colour of iron, and a cold mist was blowing over the waves. It was a view altogether desolate. They might have been the only living things in the world.

Then Maedhros began to sing. His voice was deep and rough, stern hard iron where Maglor’s was rich red gold, but it had a beauty of its own, and its power none could doubt. The chill and the sea-mist burned away in an instant before the fires that had driven back even Sauron’s Nazgûl, and Aragorn and Boromir and Faramir looked about them in awe: for they saw no longer the empty sea and bare stone, but a great plain of grass, green despite the chill wind which blew from the North, and about them a fortress such as only Minas Tirith could now rival, built of great grey stones, with thick walls and heavy doors, yet beautiful as only the craft of Elves can be. They seemed to stand in a great hall, hung with tapestries intricately wrought of gold and silver thread and studded with gems. A fire leapt up in the broad hearth, and all about them the Calaquendi went to and fro, some armed for battle and some for the hunt, some dressed richly for feasting and some simply for labour. And ever and anon they saw a face they knew, and Maedhros took his seat at the head of his great hall for a feast, or one of his brothers strode in, cloaked against the cold, to visit their eldest brother and liege-lord. The three Men might, for all they could tell, be standing in truth in the fortress of Himring in the First Age, looking about them at the liegemen of the House of Fëanor as they held the forward line in the long Siege of Angband.

How long the vision lasted none of them could afterwards say. The years seemed to whirl past them where they stood: the stone weathered, and the faces changed; the feasts that filled the hall with merriment grew more seldom and sorties out to war more frequent. Then the sun rose redly in the East, shining dully through the thick and choking smoke that rose from the plain, and Maedhros’ voice ceased. Slowly the fortress and tapestries and fires all faded: and lo, the sun indeed rose and painted red upon such of the stones of Himring as still stood after so many thousand years, but there was no smoke in the sky, and they stood only upon a barren island in the midst of the sea, and a little boat was drawn up on the sand below them, its white sail gleaming in the new sunlight.

Their journey back to the Havens was a silent one, broken only by such commands as were necessary to the sailing of the little boat. Even once they had returned to Gondor, the travellers spoke only seldom of what they had seen upon Tol Himling, but all of them remembered that journey until the end of their days. And Círdan laid their little ship in a safe harbour, and called her _Lindë,_ which is "Song," and kept her safe for the day in which he would send her to Anduin for one final voyage.

Caranthir was much in the company of the Dwarves, most especially Glóin of Erebor. They worked together long at the building of the new gate of Minas Tirith, which was wrought of _mithril_ and steel with all the skill that Elf and Dwarf could muster, and inscribed with many runes and fair designs: a gate fit for a King of the Elder Days it was when that labour was ended. When the Gate was finished and hung upon its hinges, Glóin said, "My business in this City is done for the present, though I doubt not that there will be much coming and going between Gondor and the Lonely Mountain in future days. Still, for now I shall turn my steps homewards. First, however, I must bear to you a message from King Dáin. He acknowledges you a friend of the folk of Erebor forever, and bids you, if you will, come and dwell in the Lonely Mountain, not as a guest, but as a noble in your own right. And to this I add my own message: I name you Dwarf-Friend, and say that you shall ever be welcome at my home and those of my heirs, for as long as our memory endures."

"Of all the many titles I have been called down the ages," Caranthir replied, "I hold none more honourable than Dwarf-Friend. I shall accompany you to Erebor and that gladly, for so generous an honour deserves my thanks in person."

And from that day forward, Caranthir made his home at Erebor, and the Dwarves honoured him. He, like Maedhros, travelled often: sometimes to Moria, for with Dúrin’s Bain slain the Dwarves had begun to retake it, and his skill both with sword and chisel was very welcome in their endeavours, and sometimes to the Glittering Caves of Aglarond where Gimli Glóin’s son was beginning to forge a new city of Dwarves and Men of Rohan. He was especially beloved of the smiths, both of the Lonely Mountain and of Aglarond, for he taught to them once again secrets of forge-craft that they had thought lost forever with the coming of the Dragon, and some things that would have been new even to the most skilled of their forebears.

Curufin, like his eldest brother, spent much of his time in Gondor, where he was much in the company of Captain Mallor, once of the Third Circle of Minas Tirith, now in command of the garrison of Osgiliath, and the two of them laboured, often with help from Caranthir and the Dwarves of Erebor, to make that city defensible once more. And as long as he dwelt near Minas Tirith, Curufin spent more of his days at Mallor’s house than at his own rooms, and was close in friendship with all his family. But at least once in every year he rode to the Shire to visit Samwise Gamgee the Mayor, and it was usual for him to stop on the way to visit Caranthir, wherever he might be found at the time.

Amrod and Amras, inseparable as ever, had no settled abode, but rode to and fro about the country, Cûlegyr of Lórien ever at their side. The twins had friends now among both the folk of Lórien who remained, living in Ithilien under Celeborn’s rule, and of the Woodland Realm, and they spent a good part of each year in one place or the other. In Greenwood, no longer named Mirkwood now that Dol Guldor was thrown down, they hunted the giant spiders which remained and told tales of their hunts with Celegorm in Beleriand to Captain Lalven as they sat beside their campfires and waited for the beasts to show themselves. In Ithilien, they aided the folk of Lórien in their labours, working to cleanse the foul vale of Minas Morgul and even the dark fences of Mordor itself from the filth left by orcs and other beasts over the years of Sauron’s dominion, and watched in triumph as slowly that blasted land began to green, beginning from the field of Dagorlad where the dead of the New Alliance lay buried with honour. "It will be many and many years ere Mordor itself is clean again," Amras said with a look of satisfaction, "but the work is well started."

"Well started indeed," Cûlegyr answered. "I would once have said that it would never be cleansed again, nor Minas Morgul, unless the Great Sea itself rose up to wash away the filth."

"Others will finish what we have begun," Amrod said thoughtfully. "For though the Great Sea will not, I think, rise up to cleanse Mordor, its call has power nonetheless."

The truth of his words was proven soonest by Curufin. Nigh on eighty years after the end of the War of the Ring, Curufin came for his yearly visit. He still came to Bag End once a year, though Sam’s children had moved to hobbit-holes of their own long ago, and Rosie had died some years before. As always, he brought news of Merry and Pippin, who had at last left their roles as Master of Buckland and Thain of the Shire to their sons and come to live for good in Rohan and Gondor, and heard in reply the news Sam had to tell of the Shire. They had finished supper, and were looking out over the garden of Bag End, smoking an after-dinner pipe together, when Sam said, "You know, I’ve half a mind to go down to the Havens again soon. I’ve the queerest feeling that there’s something waiting for me there. I’ve been dreaming of the Sea, and boats, and Mr. Frodo — and Master Celegorm too. It’s like they’re waiting for me or summat."

"The Sea calls you," Curufin said. "It calls me too, and I have felt it the more strongly of late, the more so now that Mallor and his wife have passed beyond the circles of the world. Indeed, I have said my farewells to my brothers already, and stayed only to bid you farewell also, but now it seems that I need not do so. What say you? Shall we seek the Havens together and see what it is that we find?"

And so it was that they passed beyond the North Downs together, Sam on his pony and Curufin on his tall horse of Rohan. The last mortal eyes that looked upon them were those of Elanor Gardner, who lived at Undertowers with her family, and she received the Red Book from her father, and he blessed her and embraced her. Though she grieved at their parting, yet her grief was tempered by the knowledge that he sailed to meet his beloved Mr. Frodo once more, the hobbit whom she could just remember as a pale and quiet but kind presence in Bag End, long ago in her childhood. Círdan met them when they came, and greeted them gravely. "Samwise Ringbearer," he said. "Curufin Fëanorion. All is in readiness."

By the pier, they saw a little ship — scarcely more than a boat — but with fair lines and white sails and a rayed star set on her prow. "She waits only for her last passengers," Círdan said. "A few of my folk will sail with you, for each year more of us grow weary of Middle-Earth, and there are a few Elves of the Wandering Companies who wish to seek Valinor once more. But we knew of your coming, and this ship was made for you. _Elen Lenda,_ we call her, the Journey-Star, for she bears the star of your house on her prow."

Curufin laid his hand upon the ship’s prow, but he spoke never a word. Sam knew, now, the terrible tale of how he came first to Middle-Earth in stolen ships that bore the swan of Olwë on their prows, and he could guess a little at what it meant now for him to receive such a ship as a gift, bearing the star of his own house in place of a figurehead. Then, with his hand still resting over the star of the House of Fëanor, Curufin turned to Círdan and bowed low to him, and Círdan bowed in answer, and though still they spoke no word, Sam knew that there was a bond of friendship between them now, and would be ever after.

It had been dusk when they reached the Havens, and the wind had died down with the sun, and so that night they spent in Círdan’s house with the other travellers and many also of his shipwrights. It was a curious place, built of ancient timbers and fashioned in many ways like a great ship’s cabin with westward-facing windows. The food they had was mostly fish and cheese and hard bread — such things as could be either caught fresh at sea or packed easily and kept long in barrels — but there was a light and golden wine to go with the dinner, and Círdan’s ship-house was quite snug and comfortable. The next morning they boarded the _Elen Lenda,_ and the last of the Ringbearers set sail for Valinor.

But not the last of the Sons of Fëanor, not yet. Maedhros remained in Gondor, and Caranthir in Erebor, and Amrod and Amras still rode back and forth from Greenwood to Ithilien. For fifty years longer they stayed, and the folk of Gondor began to believe that Maedhros would stay for good, to guide and advise the people of the City through generation after generation. But at last Elessar the King set the crown on his son’s head, and bade farewell to his wife, and his soul passed beyond the circles of the world, and his body was laid in Rath Dínen with all honour, where it lay in splendour undimmed, a vision equal in majesty to any of the Kings of Númenor of old, and Maedhros looking upon his still face thought that he looked more than ever like Elros his forefather. 

Then Maedhros and Arwen together bade farewell to those they loved: to Elboron the Steward, Faramir’s son, and to Maitimo the Captain-General whom Boromir had named for his friend, and to Eldarion the King, and then they rode out from the City in the dim morning. Few marked their passing, and fewer still knew that they rode to Lórien, where the hill of Cerin Amroth stood green once more among young _mellyrn_ trees. Neither Arwen nor her grandfather ever returned to the City.

Maedhros knew that all of Gondor would welcome him with gladness should he wish to stay, but the music of the Sea was in his ears, and with the deaths of the King and Queen he no longer wished to ignore it. And so he rode to Ithilien, passing for the last time by the shining white towers of Minas Tirith as they gleamed in the morning sun, and there he found Legolas and Gimli and Caranthir standing by the shores of the Anduin loading provisions and a few precious belongings into a strangely familiar boat with a white sail that bore the unmistakable marks of Círdan’s workmanship, and wordlessly he joined them. And the son of Imrahil of Dol Amroth swore to the end of his days that a little Elven ship with a white sail had passed down Anduin at dawn and out over the sea, sailed by a crew of four, and had not returned.

After their last two brothers had departed, Amrod and Amras, and Cûlegyr who was ever with them, rode to Rivendell, and there they remained with Elladan and Elrohir, and the time of their departure is not known. But even such joyful souls as theirs must grow weary of this Middle-Earth in the end, and there is no doubt that they sailed at last, sooner or later, and rejoined their brothers in Valinor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, guys, it’s finally over. Almost exactly a year from the date of the first posting, and _The War of the Ring_ has ended. I almost can’t believe it. There will be more content coming in the future, in the form of deleted scenes by myself and the fantastic Mr. Bultitude, but the main story is all done.
> 
> In honour of that fact, I hereby dedicate this work:
> 
> To J.R.R. Tolkien, Grandmaster of Fantasy, who filled my imagination with so much glory and beauty that it still overflows into new stories.  
To Mr. Bultitude, proofreader, kicker of recalcitrant muses, fount of ideas, and all-round encourager.  
To Christopher Tolkien, who passed beyond the walls of the world while this story was being written, and who is responsible for the existence of the entire _History of Middle-Earth,_ without which this work could not exist.  
And last but not least, to you, my readers. To everyone who has commented, or left kudos, or even just lurked on the sidelines (yes, I know you’re there). Without your encouragement this work would never have made it past the first few chapters, and I would be the poorer for it. So, to you — yes, you, the one reading this right now, whether you’ve found my story right after I posted this chapter or years in the future — I say a very hearty _hannon le!_ I know less than half of you half as well as I would like, but I must say I certainly like you very much, perhaps even half as well as you deserve.  
Namarië!  
Morwen of Gondor
> 
> P.S. In case you would like to give me the opportunity to like you almost as well as you deserve, pop over to my new Tumblr at [WinterInHimring](https://winterinhimring.tumblr.com/) and say hey!  
P.P.S. To those of you who wanted this to end in Valinor: I apologise, but it just didn't work. This is a story of Middle-Earth, and so it must end when our heroes leave that land or lose its nature. Other people have written stories of Valinor, and I have greatly enjoyed them, but this is not one of them. Do keep an eye on the deleted scenes, though; I might be able to put something in there.  
P.P.P.S. Speaking of deleted scenes, this is your last reminder to put any prompts for those in the comments! I'm most likely to write something that's set within the timeline of the story, after the Sons of Fëanor show up to the council and before they sail. 


End file.
